literarydiscussions.myfreeforum.org

Chava · Joined: 20 Sep 2005 Posts: 5 Location: Denmark

A dark suburb; shrouded in complete, so-thick-you-can-cut-it-with-a-knife
darkness. A street, Wests End, surrounded by a dozen identical
apartment buildings, all of them dusky and some dank, reeking of a
particularly ancient mould. Of the four streetlamps that lit Wests End one
was alight; casting a luminescent blue green shade upon block no.9.
Another flickered with an eerie buzzing sound, like that of a fly that can’t
get out of a tin box. The two other lamps were both out. Dead.
Annulled. Smashed; by local post adolescents.

Each of the little blocks consisted of four apartments, and an attic storage
room. The faded brick walls were covered in moist graffiti, and along the
cracks in the foundation concrete grew twisting vines, as if to choke what
life may have been in the building once.

Block no.12 was no different. Actually, that’s not true. The palisade
window, which must once have belonged to apartment 4, was smashed in
this block. It had boards crossing the frame.

If one should decide to forget about the excruciating exterior of Wests
End, and actually enter block no.1, and go to the window that existed in
the spiral staircase that led from the entry hall to the second floor, one
could see a man walking. He meandered down the street in an oddish
fashion that was much disregarded among the fancier of the lenders. This
man had no home, he had no job, and he had no food. And yet, all these
delicate lenders of the ever so fashionable apartment lenders looked at
him and decided that there was no way he would ever be invited to a
poker evening. After all, there was no way this poor man would be able
to play a proper poker face anyway… That, was an art, mastered by
those who had lots of money, but wanted more, or by those who had
none, and who gambled for their lives.

So it was with some satisfaction that these important inhabitants of Wests
End could close their shanty curtains and smile knowingly at each other,
over their cards and through their cigar smoke.

Meanwhile, the poor man would meander on down the street. Not
noticing the crude hands that cautiously sliding aside a corner of the
curtains, so as to keep him from noticing them. They belonged to those
without say. Full of boisterous opinions, but with arthritis or some other
dysfunction preventing them from putting the force of action behind their
sesquipedalian words. They know he needs their help, but they also know
that they need a new Gucci bag, and if the budget allows it, a new face
lift. He walks on. He can barely walk.

It is at block no.7 that a frightened man steps out onto the meagre
doorstep. The meandering man halts for a second to stare in surprise.
This new man has a gun, and he is shouting at him. “Get the hell out of
my part of the street! What do you think your business is here! Bringing
your weapons, your huge starving families, and I don’t know what, so a
man can’t get a decent minute of peace around here anymore!” He is
shouting and waving his shotgun for the man in the street to see. The
man doesn’t understand what is being said, he doesn’t speak English. He
doesn’t speak anything. He never had the chance to learn. He never will
have that chance either, because no one wants to help him. He only ever
brings trouble.

In block no.9, apartment 2, there is a large family. They are fighting with
the family in apartment 1. A man steps out of the door, behind him is a
pretty woman. He yells at the meandering man. “Go away, we can’t help
you! Can’t you see that we have enough problems of our own?” The
man can see this; he can see that no one is helping these people either.

He has reached block no.12, and he looks at the broken window. Inside it
there are voices, silent, hushed, rushed, quiet voices. They want to
liberate themselves they say, from the people who are living next door.
But the people next door have weapons and permits. They have
government backing, and they are a military force. They cannot be
liberated without losing everything. Without losing their lives. The man
walks on.

He has reached the end of the street. He has reached the end. Now he
knows where the West Ends.

Only so much is goodwill.

_________________
Do you want to tiva with the mosi

Get your own free IRC Chat room