It's a very short flash piece that I wrote for a contest (I didn't win) which is a little embarrassing for me to say, because it might be terrible. But I think I actually like it, quite a bit, so maybe I'll stop trying to convince you not to read it. Anyway, here goes, it's titled: Tally.
~~~
One-hundred and
three. It's the number of minutes his concentration has been
broken by the unceasing clatter. He doesn't write the number down,
that would involve too much scratching out (he is partial to pens),
and a greater paper investment than he is willing to entertain.
One-hundred and
four. Plus one to the tally
he's keeping on his right hand. He's using a dot and line system to
avoid a larger-than-necessary skin investment.
Not recording... that would be out of the question.
One-hundred and
five.
And
he believes it appears less mad than his hand covered with the tick
marks of a more easily-recognizable regional tally system. He is
wrong, but he hasn't considered that. This is a first, for him.
One-hundred and
six. He's wondering if he
should switch to counting hours after tally eighty-three. Tally
eighty-three because he didn't start his count until minute
thirty-seven. He's wondering if he should just add the first
thirty-six. It would throw off the pattern, the uniformity of the
system.
One-hundred and
seven.
He
doesn't.
“What
do you suppose that sound is?” he swivels and talks to her back.
They do not speak: he stutters. What has gotten in to him?
She doesn't swivel, she barely arches her neck to give him a
half-faced sneer, highlit by the phosphorescence of her terminal.
A glance at his hand, and she turns up her nose. “Sound?”
One-hundred and
eight. He cannot bear to have
her look at him, but somehow, from beneath the burden of the cosmos,
one scrawny arm points upwards from his wilting body. His eyebrows
raise expectantly, hopefully, just before he turns to stone.
One-hundred
and nine.
Her sigh has the force to disintegrate him. Luckily, she releases
it mid exaggerated eye-roll, so it dissipates harmlessly in the
atmosphere above her. She turns, and, free from her half-gaze, his
body returns to flesh.
One-hundred
and ten. 'What
… is … that … sound?' He Googles. He means, 'What is the
source?' After one-hundred and ten minutes, he has a nuanced
understanding of the sound itself: a barely-perceived grinding of
dull metal on metal, not unlike the failed shifting of a manual
transmission, but lower. Lower, and constant.
One-hundred
and eleven. He
is reminded of the dentist. He imagines the hooks raking across his
teeth; the detachment of the Slavic woman who runs a miniaturized
sander across his gums. He alone chooses “I'm Feeling Lucky”
when assailed by such sensations.
One-hundred
and twelve. It's
louder here. The black stretches behind him for miles, and above:
the turning gears. Ahead is a man, a door at his left. Harsh light
creeps in at the edges; a coolness at odds with the swelter of the
dark.
“Ah, one of our workers! You heard the sound, will you open the
door?”
“I... I...” he deflates.
“Tsk, tsk.”
46.
On letterhead; the paper investment of this tally isn't so great.
He's gray. He taps out the letters, forms the question, and ponders
his luck.
~~~
~~~
And there you have it. As always please let me know what you think, keep an eye out, and keep reading!
-S
