[TheEnglishman]

So I've started doing a course in uni called 'Fiction Through Practice' and, as I'm sure you can imagine, it focuses on creative writing. Last week we had to create a short story in a similar vein to this short story by John Steinbeck. Well during the class we shared eachothers stories and one of my friends felt I'd done a fairly good piece. Personally I didn't think it was that great but I thought I'd share and see what you guys thought.
I tried to take Steinbeck's idea of taking an ordinary event and making it into something which serves as a personal memory that's fit to be shared. Steinbeck focuses on light in his work where as my story goes for sound. Sometimes I'm a bit unsubtle with the point. :joy:

Stationary

The vehicle wheezed to a stop and I quickly fumbled out into the sleeting rain. I dashed past those being reunited with families, as a constant hammering rained upon my head. I moved inside the station, into the warmth of the building and the buzz of movement around me. I reached for my phone, with only one question running through my mind, was I late? The answer came from a pleasant, yet emotionless voice which rose above the cacophony of the station.

‘The train arriving at platform one…’
I headed to the nearest ticket machine with renewed vigour, aware of the hum from the approaching train. The machine went through the motions, before spitting out its orange card. I turned and headed for the platform as shoes and boots thudded past me, leaving the frenzy of the train, the station and the journey behind them. Yet just as I headed into the bitter January air, the dreaded shrill note of the driver’s whistle reached my ear. I watched as the train pulled away, clattering along the rails towards my destination without me. I slumped into a chair, as my bag dropped to floor beside me. The resulting sound echoed throughout the platform.

I sighed at the realisation I had gone from being two minutes late for my train to fourty minutes early for the next one. The frigid air seemed to hold a stronger edge to it than it had previously in the day, but there was no real benefit to be had from moving back into the station building. I simply sat, turning away from the gaze of the digital screen, a constant reminder of the time I had to serve. I simply sat, and waited for something to happen.

My reward came in the form of the squeaking of leather shoes, as a businessman passed by and settled himself two seats away from me. He placed his briefcase beside him and set his gaze on the wall opposite, staring towards nothing. I began to wonder what ran through the man’s money-making mind. Hopes, plans, ambitions? Fears, doubts, concerns? The aging face betrayed no emotions. The snap of the man’s briefcase broke both the silence and my reverie as he reached for his newspaper. We both sat, the quiet only breached by an occasional rustling from the man.

Ten minutes passed before another came into the cold, a younger man with a bulging rucksack which rivalled my own. He chose to stand rather than sit, and was holding a phone to his ear. I tried to respect the man’s privacy by not listening to his call, yet his voice rang across the stillness of the platform, despite his quiet tone. He was speaking to a member of his family, telling them that he was waiting for the train and that it would it probably be an hour before he arrived back home, assuming the train wasn’t late. The murmur continued to fill the absence of noise.

Yet one voice became many as time passed and people became aware of the need for a movement. I could hear the frantic voices of an aging couple, constantly checking the digital screen for the time, and their own pockets for tickets purchased only moments ago. I couldn’t help but smile as I noticed how their actions mimicked those of my own parents, worrying about being late when they were ten minutes early. Yet as I sat back in a chair I had grown increasingly used to in the last half hour, I realised I could probably benefit from being in that frame of mind.

The noise grew as crowds spilled from the warmth of the station, reluctant to enter the arctic conditions but aware of problems of remaining inside. Voices and sounds became unintelligible from people and actions apart from one which seemed to ring out across the crowd, despite the pleasant tone.

‘The train now arriving at platform one…’
I got up and waited for the slowing hum of the train once again. The people surrounding me ended their conversations and picked up their belongings in anticipation. In a few minutes I would be inside the approaching vehicle, once again hearing the shrill blast of the whistle. Yet this time it would signal movement and a need to advance. I would no longer be waiting, watching and listening. I would no longer be stationary.

Thoughts?

[Caael]

Nice stuff, I love simple events becoming full stories.

[TheEnglishman]

I think you appreciate realism as you grow older and life gets more difficult. I used to love the idea of doing some sort of fantasy setting but I probably would struggle now.

[Toasty]

That was pretty good. I think you did a great job with describing the situation and the setting. It was pretty easy to draw a picture in my mind of what was going on.

[TheEnglishman]

So I had to do another piece. This one's a bit longer and it's only a part rather than a short story. See what you think.


The cameras always seemed to be in that part of town. No matter what time of day, some plucky young reporter seemed to be standing in front of the growing mesh of steel and glass, filming the scene and dreaming of being the one that brought the growing spectacle to the people. The building was certainly beginning to make its mark on the area, even if it had to compete with so many others. I’d seen it grow everyday as I strolled towards Hennessey’s offices to make my report on his businesses. That day though was different. That day, I sat and watched as the monument was built in front of my eyes. Workers moved constantly around the structure with no regard to the great height they were at, or indeed the great fall that would await a misplaced foot.

‘I hear they’re calling that thing the Empire State’ I said. ‘Makes your house look a little weak, eh Gibson?’
Gibson laughed, but it lacked any mirth. He shifted slowly on the bench, turning to face me. ‘Hey, these days I’m just glad to be living anywhere. Most of the people I used to know are living in places like that’, he replied, pointing to the new residences that had popped up down the street. Gibson’s face soured. ‘I guess any building looks impressive when you’re living in one of those shanty towns’.

I slumped back and sighed, turning my head to the clouds. A few years ago, Gibson probably would have said that somebody was compensating for something and we’d have both laughed, but he wasn’t the same person he had been a few years ago. I still remember how he looked that day, how his hat seemed to be surgically attached to his head to hide the rapidly greying hair, how his face showed deep furrowed lines that hadn’t been present when we began this line of work. People used to comment on how much we looked brothers, but at that moment, I felt it looked closer to a father and son. Working with Hennessey’s operation during this time of prohibition may have carried risks, but they seemed to affect Gibson far more than myself.

He turned his attention away from the decrepit ‘homes’ and back to his copy of the New York Times. The rounded face of Herbert Hoover was pasted across the front page, looking troubled and grim. ‘Looks like he picked the right time to get elected,’ Gibson mumbled, looking at the image. He was right too. Most ordinary Joes weren’t happy with Hoover’s leadership. The twin terrors of the Depression and Prohibition meant people couldn’t have fun like they did in the twenties. Somebody had to take the blame and President Hoover was simply the wrong guy at the wrong time. Gibson took a sip from his coffee. ‘Course guys like us aren’t exactly helping him out, are we?’ He might have been joking, but his voice was tense and serious.

I responded ‘Hey we ain’t the bad guys here. We provide a service that the government so foolishly decided to take away. It’s not like we hurting anybody right?’ I thought my answer might calm him down, but he didn’t seem to be pacified. If anything, he looked troubled, like some heavy burden was weighing him down, stopping him from speaking his true feelings. He simply stared at the ground for awhile before taking another sip of coffee. I looked back at the new structure in front of me, watching the scurrying of the workers around the steel girders, until Gibson suddenly laughed and said ‘Looks like we can’t get away from this guy can we?’ The Times was passed over to me, and I was greeted by the smiling face of our boss, Albert Hennessey. ‘Almost didn’t recognise him with that grin on his face,’ Gibson remarked, coughing slightly.

The article was about Hennessey’s latest acquisition, a few of the shops at the market not far from his office. People were amazed at the growing number of properties Hennessey owned, commentators lauded his business skills and ability to turn a profit when national corporations were collapsing across the country. There was an aura of success that seemed to follow him and people wanted to be just like Hennessey, the self made millionaire who could take on the troubles of economic strife and come out better off than ever. I looked back at the picture and imagined the cameras bulbs flashing as reporters shouted ‘Mr Hennessey, Mr Hennessey can we please have a word!’ To the public, Arthur Hennessey was a figure to admire.

But anyone who can smile while the country collapses has something to hide, and Hennessey was no different. Nearly all of his businesses were speakeasies, places where people in the know could come to buy alcohol. A decade ago the idea would have been ludicrous, but so would the idea of the eighteenth amendment. The introduction of prohibition meant that alcohol became a forbidden vice, wanted by so many but demonized in the eye of the law. Prohibition also introduced crafty men like Hennessey to benefits of selling this forbidden fruit to the masses at low prices. Grocery stores, bookstores, hell even pet stores were used as fronts. Of course Hennessey’s early success meant that suspicion was soon cast on his businesses but he was a smart guy. He’d have informants who found out when police raids would be conducted, he’d discover which of the boys in blue were willing to take a bribe. Hennessey soon dispelled the doubts people held about his success even while he was flooding booze back into the community. People like me helped the operation by checking on the various stores and reporting info back to Hennessey. Back then, I was just grateful for the work and the money. I always felt the job was just a case of righting a wrong that the government had imposed. Hennessey was Robin Hood and we were the Merry Men! That illusion wouldn’t last forever though.

I handed the Times back to Gibson who wheezed as he accepted it. He looked back at the article and said ‘No one’s willing to even mention prohibition around him now. They all buy that ‘self made man’ crap’. He leaned back and finished the rest of his coffee.

I couldn’t hold back any longer. ‘What is it with you Gibson? The guy pays you well and you still act like one of those broads who moan about the ‘evil in society’!’
‘Oh so you think Hennessey’s some white knight riding in to save the peasants from the perils of New York?’
‘Of course not! He just wants to let the ordinary working man cool off with a drink. He’s trying to help people!’
Gibson let out a harsh, barking cough that steadily turned to laughter. ‘You really think he gives a damn about them? You think people like him or Capone get rich just because they wanna help people?’

‘He pays us well enough for the work we do. I’d have thought you’d appreciate the money, what with your family and all. I’d say he does a good job looking after us!’

Gibson stood up and looked at me coldly. The response was barely above a whisper. ‘You really are stupid aren’t ya Tom. You think Hennessey just doing something petty, like stealing from the cookie jar? Give some tired, old man a little something to look forward to in the day?’

I tried to answer back, to defend our boss, but I was stunned by the man in front of me who bore so little a resemblance to my friend of the last twenty years.
‘Of course you wouldn’t really know what its like,’ Gibson continued ‘you only do the small scale stuff. Checking the barrels, talking with the owners, dumb stuff like that. If you were like me… if you… were like… me...’

Gibson began panting, stumbling slightly. ‘John?’ I said, using his rarely used first name. Suddenly he grabbed his chest and screamed in agony, causing me to leap back and cry ‘John!’ His legs seemed to give way, causing him to crash to the floor in a crumpled, heap. I heard a distant voice shout ‘Call a doctor!’ but I knew it would be no use. The body lay silent. I simply stared, dumbfounded, as the hat rolled from John Gibson’s head to the gutter below.

I know there's a few mistakes with it (Hennessey's first name switches at one point) but generally people said it was ok.

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