Left the nine at home.

[Acehilm]

Condescending vectors ran out the atrium of the lecture room as lies filled the ear canals of ambitious riches. This atrium, quietly homed one kid kicking at his feet, his disgusted face hidden within the comfort of his world - tucked away in his hoodie. He, like the others, yearned for something else; but unlike them, he knew that his lane was filled.

 

"The world is filled with thousands of doctors, and lawyers, I wouldn't know the number for them," he sat back in his chair, propping his leg on his other knee before slightly leaning forward. He sat in his careers advisers office, the leather of the curved chair seeking into his body position. The man behind dark hardwood desk, somewhat contrasted between the oak floor, furthered his gaze before staring blankly.

 

"This is what the world is," the man spoke, "Some cease to exist in another, but the majority of the population lives here," he pressed his thumb into the hardwood desk. This kid chuckled in his chair, watching someone who got paid over forty-kay a year tell him that, simply, the world is. A vague statement? Indeed it was. The kid stood up, flattened out his red jacket and turned without indication of a finished conversation.

 

"Just the normal," he spoke, glaring at the frail and faint words written on a board above stoves. The small asian women, a pen slid in her black hair, turned to the men in the kitchen speaking fluently in tongue that the kid didn't know. "Wait," the kid said, half turned, "Forget it." He crashed through the door, flowed into the streets, gushing he moved. Scooping a joint and holding it lightly in the grasp of his lips. The smoke, blew through his nose, and then he hailed a cab.

 

"Take me away."

 

He slowly sipped on noodles, watching out the window as snow fell to the earth. The kid lived on his own. He was destined for something else, but in the world, he believed he was destined for nothing. The concept, he grasped, that destiny didn't exist. With this, he wrote a short memoir and stuffed it in his jacket pockets. It was published in the local newspaper a week later, but his legacy peaked then dropped. It was not only until a journalist from Parkbourke, Canada, called mistakenly - he had dialed for the university but the call ended up on the kids end. He got offered a job and moved north for the year, first writing a section on socio-economics and his own beliefs on the generation today and how we are holding potential back. Within a month, he was promoted.

 

Kids from the block he lived on lived raw lifestyles. Rolling dice, smoking blunts in quiet hotel lobbies. The saw death, like it was a daily occurrence. The clouds laid low, as he walked with his hands in his pockets. At gunpoint, he watched a family of five get robbed. He went back later that day, walking along the pathway infront of the terrace houses and knocked on their front door.

 

"I came here to write an article," he spoke, watching the african-american mother tear up as the kids behind stood, yanking on their mothers dressing gown, "Please - come in." The house inside had a faint smell of tobacco and the ground was covered with newspaper, "We have puppies," but he never saw any. It turned out that the kids had never been toilet trained, and she was ashamed to tell of her time raising babies. We sat on her small, back porch. The backyard was laid with cement, and a lonesome washing line creaked in the slightest wind. "Sir, this isn't an a home for creativity," she spoke, and he noted. The community was close nit, she explained, but with this oneness, other neighbourhoods were posed as threats. Gangs flourished, and so did evil, as he had witnessed.

 

"I've killed before," the kid spoke.

 

That article was published a week later, which made it to mainstream headlines of the five corporate media hubs. Debates began to drive this form of media, discussing whether this harsh life is nothing but reality, and the younger the kids face it, the better they'll understand later on. The kid separated himself from this scene of nonsense, but rather observed what he had brought about. He sat in his garden, smoking a blunt and watching the coal trains pass behind his house. He came out here to escape from his reality. The reality of working all hours of the day and night. It made him turn to stone inside, which frightened him. The hogweed surrounded him, as rain fell. His garden was unkept, but so was his life.

 

In November, he traveled south for an exclusive interview in New York - but he took another route. The route that lead him back to his home town. He sat slumped in the chair, the leather seeking into his body position. He did not speak, and his adviser barley did neither. It was a sombre experience, then he left. He crossed the tracks of old train yards, keeping an eye out. Harlem, he was in. His interview was late that afternoon, so he took his time. He met an old man, who use to work these tracks before everyone was laid off. He paid for the mans lunch and offered him a ride to a shelter for the night. After the interview with O'Riley, he made his way back to the shelter.

 

"I'm looking for Gale," the kid spoke through a small window, leading into the shelter home. He made himself at home. Smoke hung like an overcast day on the ceiling, and music played quietly from the speakers at each corner of the room. In the centre, was a pool table and stools with tables. It was there, that Gale sat, counting spare change. The kid asked to interview him, and he accepted. Gale spoke that the older generation, after leading the country to where it is today, have been trotted on and forgotten. He warned to the kids generation that the same would happen to his; this, needing to be prevented. There was a small fight inside the shelter and soon, the kid left, arriving at JFK.

 

 

[universetwisters]

Damn man, this is quite good. The part about the kids not being toilet trained reminded me of that Genie chick or whatever her name was, that one girl who was locked in a room for 13 or so years. But yeah man, good stuff.

 

You're not in the SSH anymore?

[Acehilm]

Thanks man. I'm glad you liked it.

[Mokrie Dela]

This is oozing with style and very purple at times

 

A few errors - spelling but nothing overtly major - a proof and edit would catch them I'm sure.

 

I'm glad to read something long enough to develop but not too long that it drags.

 

But it just seemed to stop. If there was an endgame, a final point to be made, I missed it. But setting that aside, it's well written. Some subtle alliteration, a real nice flow. Nicely done.