Non-Sci-Fi Story
Posted: 2004-02-14 09:47pm
The Tourists
By: Marc Rowley (The Aliens)
The man reflected that it was a good day for a walk. He had decided that earlier in the morning, when he realized he had not been outside for more than ten minute in the last three days- having spent hours in his office and getting there by the subway. He had walked along the city streets for hours, feeling the cool autumn air on his face, and smelling the city air as the smog and grit were blown down the streets and upwards, leaving clear air and dead leaves underfoot. He saw a young boy selling newspapers across the street, and remembered he had not seen a paper in more than a week. He just hadn’t had the time. He picked up the paper, paid, and left the small stand, heading for the city centre.
He arrived at a small café in a busy square, and began to read. The traffic hurtled by, dancing close to the curb, but he sat resolutely, sipping his glass of water. He was not a conspicuous man, his hair was receding and the remainder graying, wrinkles crossed his face as if a road map of a long and healthy life. None of the people walking along the busy side road stopped at the small bistro where the man sat outside at a small table, under a large tree. The scene playing out in front of him, however, affected the man far more than his stoic expression indicated.
When did the world become so blasted fast, he asked himself, as a small scooter cut through traffic and left a trail of exhaust behind it. He watched it for a moment, as it veered through three lanes and took the roundabout at full speed, almost barreling into a group of tourists heading the other way. The man shook his head and sipped his water, looking around the area. He looked down at the paper, filled with tales of murders and crime, and he closed his eyes remembering autumns of his youth, at fairs and harvests, the brief reverie was shattered moments later by the waiter.
“More water,” he asked, and the man looked slowly up at him, studying the face. He could see impatience etched in every line, and the man took a moment to answer. He deliberated the question in his mind, wondering if he wanted to stay, and nodded.
“Yes, please.” The waiter walked off quickly, and the man sighed. Even here, on a relaxing patio on a late summer’s day, the sun high in the sky, everyone was in a rush. Nothing slowed down for any simple things, the feeling of grass on bare feet or the whisper of a promise spoken by the breeze. The traffic flitted by, and the clouds of fumes rose from them, but nobody noticed. The tourists had approached the table now, and several flashbulbs went off.
“This is the historic Café D’Ivoire. It was the site of planning for the town uprising of 1685, and was almost destroyed by fire in the early nineteen hundreds. It has a long history, as an embassy of…”
A man in the back sporting a Hawaiian shirt and a thick American accent called out. “We have three museums to see before supper tonight, and there’s a Cathedral and the cenotaph I want to see.” Many people murmured their agreement, and the tour guide hurried on, the foreigners with him.
The man sitting in the café sighed audibly. Those pieces of art had been created and gathered over thousands of years, and some tourists hoped to see all of them in hours. The man took the water from the waiter, who hurried off again. Was I blinking when the world decided to accelerate, he thought, sipping slowly. Years roll by, and no one can give any thought to the past, only where they’re going. It’s sad, how much these people miss, hurrying on past. A single leaf detached from the tree beside him and fluttered down. He watched it fall, caught in the late summer’s breeze, and landed on the pavement, where it was crushed under the heel of a woman wearing a business suit and talking on a cellular phone.
That leaf took months to grow, and was destroyed in a moment. The man looked across the busy, four-lane street, and saw the young boy selling newspapers. He couldn’t bear the thought of finishing reading his- in his day the stories would have been about upcoming fairs and a new store opening on the corner of Main and Water Streets.
Again his thoughts turned to the traffic, and he lost himself in thought. His memories drifted to his youth, many years ago, and a long drive in the country. He had sat in the back seat with his parents up front, watching the endless rows of wheat march past. The sky seemed infinite, the smells of the country invigorated him and he felt like he could do anything in the world. The tractors would drive beside the old Chevrolet, and every so often the car would pull off the road, stop in the middle of a field, and the picnic basket would come out. Those were happy days, the long hours stretching into warm dusk- baseball, bonfires and singing songs until the stars came out and the moths danced in the flames.
Then came the move- his father took the family to the city to find work, and everything changed. The small apartment felt like a prison when he allowed himself to drift back to the endless golden fields, but life went on. He became caught up in the city- he moved quickly, he ignored that which was not important to him at that moment. He lived that way through the years, as winters faded to springs and back again, as time marched on.
It was such a desperate shame, he thought. He had seen his life go by and not noticed any of it, until twenty minutes ago. He had opened his eyes briefly, saw the slow creep of sunlight across the table, and reveled in it. He had looked across the street to a small children’s park, saw birds flying overhead, and the leaves swaying on the trees.
Without even thinking, he now raised from his seat, and crossed the busy street to go to the park. It was small, only a few trees and a handful of flowers with scant equipment for the kids to play on, but he now found himself drawn to it. He found himself puzzled as he walked, almost to the point of tears. What have I done with my life? Who have I become? He mused the questions over in his mind but decided he didn’t want to think about it, as he saw black-clad business people walk past. However much I’ve wasted, I can make up for it now. He plucked a lilac from its place in one of the small flowerbeds, and ran across the small park in seconds. He saw a woman walking towards him, stiletto heels, and recognized her as the woman from before, who had crushed the leaf.
“Alright, I’ll be in Hong Kong by the morning, and I’ll meet you in London for lunch Friday.” She was talking into a cellphone, and the sight almost moved the man to fall over and cry. He didn’t, however. He grabbed her shoulder, and looked at her with pleading eyes.
“Please, miss, please take a moment and smell this flower.”
She brushed him off and kept walking. He almost chased after her, but he felt in his heart he would not be able to save her from a mechanical existence. He finally did collapse, his knees bending and gently carrying him to the gravelly path. When did the world become so fast, he asked himself, as the faceless crowds carried on walking past, stopping for just a moment to look at this husk of a man, and seeing him crushing the purple lilac in his balled fist.
LA FIN
Feeback Welcome~ The Aliens
By: Marc Rowley (The Aliens)
The man reflected that it was a good day for a walk. He had decided that earlier in the morning, when he realized he had not been outside for more than ten minute in the last three days- having spent hours in his office and getting there by the subway. He had walked along the city streets for hours, feeling the cool autumn air on his face, and smelling the city air as the smog and grit were blown down the streets and upwards, leaving clear air and dead leaves underfoot. He saw a young boy selling newspapers across the street, and remembered he had not seen a paper in more than a week. He just hadn’t had the time. He picked up the paper, paid, and left the small stand, heading for the city centre.
He arrived at a small café in a busy square, and began to read. The traffic hurtled by, dancing close to the curb, but he sat resolutely, sipping his glass of water. He was not a conspicuous man, his hair was receding and the remainder graying, wrinkles crossed his face as if a road map of a long and healthy life. None of the people walking along the busy side road stopped at the small bistro where the man sat outside at a small table, under a large tree. The scene playing out in front of him, however, affected the man far more than his stoic expression indicated.
When did the world become so blasted fast, he asked himself, as a small scooter cut through traffic and left a trail of exhaust behind it. He watched it for a moment, as it veered through three lanes and took the roundabout at full speed, almost barreling into a group of tourists heading the other way. The man shook his head and sipped his water, looking around the area. He looked down at the paper, filled with tales of murders and crime, and he closed his eyes remembering autumns of his youth, at fairs and harvests, the brief reverie was shattered moments later by the waiter.
“More water,” he asked, and the man looked slowly up at him, studying the face. He could see impatience etched in every line, and the man took a moment to answer. He deliberated the question in his mind, wondering if he wanted to stay, and nodded.
“Yes, please.” The waiter walked off quickly, and the man sighed. Even here, on a relaxing patio on a late summer’s day, the sun high in the sky, everyone was in a rush. Nothing slowed down for any simple things, the feeling of grass on bare feet or the whisper of a promise spoken by the breeze. The traffic flitted by, and the clouds of fumes rose from them, but nobody noticed. The tourists had approached the table now, and several flashbulbs went off.
“This is the historic Café D’Ivoire. It was the site of planning for the town uprising of 1685, and was almost destroyed by fire in the early nineteen hundreds. It has a long history, as an embassy of…”
A man in the back sporting a Hawaiian shirt and a thick American accent called out. “We have three museums to see before supper tonight, and there’s a Cathedral and the cenotaph I want to see.” Many people murmured their agreement, and the tour guide hurried on, the foreigners with him.
The man sitting in the café sighed audibly. Those pieces of art had been created and gathered over thousands of years, and some tourists hoped to see all of them in hours. The man took the water from the waiter, who hurried off again. Was I blinking when the world decided to accelerate, he thought, sipping slowly. Years roll by, and no one can give any thought to the past, only where they’re going. It’s sad, how much these people miss, hurrying on past. A single leaf detached from the tree beside him and fluttered down. He watched it fall, caught in the late summer’s breeze, and landed on the pavement, where it was crushed under the heel of a woman wearing a business suit and talking on a cellular phone.
That leaf took months to grow, and was destroyed in a moment. The man looked across the busy, four-lane street, and saw the young boy selling newspapers. He couldn’t bear the thought of finishing reading his- in his day the stories would have been about upcoming fairs and a new store opening on the corner of Main and Water Streets.
Again his thoughts turned to the traffic, and he lost himself in thought. His memories drifted to his youth, many years ago, and a long drive in the country. He had sat in the back seat with his parents up front, watching the endless rows of wheat march past. The sky seemed infinite, the smells of the country invigorated him and he felt like he could do anything in the world. The tractors would drive beside the old Chevrolet, and every so often the car would pull off the road, stop in the middle of a field, and the picnic basket would come out. Those were happy days, the long hours stretching into warm dusk- baseball, bonfires and singing songs until the stars came out and the moths danced in the flames.
Then came the move- his father took the family to the city to find work, and everything changed. The small apartment felt like a prison when he allowed himself to drift back to the endless golden fields, but life went on. He became caught up in the city- he moved quickly, he ignored that which was not important to him at that moment. He lived that way through the years, as winters faded to springs and back again, as time marched on.
It was such a desperate shame, he thought. He had seen his life go by and not noticed any of it, until twenty minutes ago. He had opened his eyes briefly, saw the slow creep of sunlight across the table, and reveled in it. He had looked across the street to a small children’s park, saw birds flying overhead, and the leaves swaying on the trees.
Without even thinking, he now raised from his seat, and crossed the busy street to go to the park. It was small, only a few trees and a handful of flowers with scant equipment for the kids to play on, but he now found himself drawn to it. He found himself puzzled as he walked, almost to the point of tears. What have I done with my life? Who have I become? He mused the questions over in his mind but decided he didn’t want to think about it, as he saw black-clad business people walk past. However much I’ve wasted, I can make up for it now. He plucked a lilac from its place in one of the small flowerbeds, and ran across the small park in seconds. He saw a woman walking towards him, stiletto heels, and recognized her as the woman from before, who had crushed the leaf.
“Alright, I’ll be in Hong Kong by the morning, and I’ll meet you in London for lunch Friday.” She was talking into a cellphone, and the sight almost moved the man to fall over and cry. He didn’t, however. He grabbed her shoulder, and looked at her with pleading eyes.
“Please, miss, please take a moment and smell this flower.”
She brushed him off and kept walking. He almost chased after her, but he felt in his heart he would not be able to save her from a mechanical existence. He finally did collapse, his knees bending and gently carrying him to the gravelly path. When did the world become so fast, he asked himself, as the faceless crowds carried on walking past, stopping for just a moment to look at this husk of a man, and seeing him crushing the purple lilac in his balled fist.
LA FIN
Feeback Welcome~ The Aliens