Welcome to the Machine - Excerpt
** An excerpt from somewhere near the beginning of my next short story. Be sure to tell me what you all think. **
The sharp crack of branches against the misty window jerked James back to a state of wakefulness. The stop-start motion of the bus, along with the ceaseless drone of the small TV screen (which was, of course, spouting nothing but advertising) fixed above the front window of the top deck, had sent him into a doze. Quickly, he counted: one, two, three; with a slightly sheepish sigh of relief he leant back. None of his bags had been stolen. He wiped a messy porthole in the condensation on the window next to him, and looked out. Luckily, he hadn’t missed his stop either.
Trees swayed slightly in the wind, and the glistening pavement shone a murky yellow beneath the lamp-posts. Nothing much had changed, mused James. A few shops had switched from one chain to another; others had become pound-stores or charity shops. Some of the perpetual construction sites by the side of the road had changed position, but, by and large, it was the same suburb that he’d grown up in. Five years he’d been gone, a time which seemed at once both an instant and an age. As the bus turned right at the crossroads, James found that he knew the name of every street that flashed past, each an illuminated, disembodied sign at the side of the road, twinkling in the rain. And he knew which of his friends lived in every one, at least by name.
James smiled sadly. Everything looked so familiar, but it seemed to him as if he were returning to a dream; as if this were just a flashback that would soon pass. And in a sense that was perfectly true; this flying visit at his father’s request was simply a whistle-stop tour of his past, and once he returned to his other life, five years and a thousand miles away, this place would be as real as a half-remembered memory.
Caught in his reverie, James missed his stop.
The sharp crack of branches against the misty window jerked James back to a state of wakefulness. The stop-start motion of the bus, along with the ceaseless drone of the small TV screen (which was, of course, spouting nothing but advertising) fixed above the front window of the top deck, had sent him into a doze. Quickly, he counted: one, two, three; with a slightly sheepish sigh of relief he leant back. None of his bags had been stolen. He wiped a messy porthole in the condensation on the window next to him, and looked out. Luckily, he hadn’t missed his stop either.
Trees swayed slightly in the wind, and the glistening pavement shone a murky yellow beneath the lamp-posts. Nothing much had changed, mused James. A few shops had switched from one chain to another; others had become pound-stores or charity shops. Some of the perpetual construction sites by the side of the road had changed position, but, by and large, it was the same suburb that he’d grown up in. Five years he’d been gone, a time which seemed at once both an instant and an age. As the bus turned right at the crossroads, James found that he knew the name of every street that flashed past, each an illuminated, disembodied sign at the side of the road, twinkling in the rain. And he knew which of his friends lived in every one, at least by name.
James smiled sadly. Everything looked so familiar, but it seemed to him as if he were returning to a dream; as if this were just a flashback that would soon pass. And in a sense that was perfectly true; this flying visit at his father’s request was simply a whistle-stop tour of his past, and once he returned to his other life, five years and a thousand miles away, this place would be as real as a half-remembered memory.
Caught in his reverie, James missed his stop.
