Citizen

Here is a short story I wrote as a submission to a surreal on-line short story site. They didn’t want it so I am posting it here. Something different. No tongue-in-cheek humor this time, but rather a poignant view of a man and his quiet life. Give me a comment!

Citizen

He walked slowly down the endless street, his hand clutched tight on the curved snakehead of stiff cane that bit into his hand with every step, fangs flashing like the screaming lights of the faceless police whose car had pulsed authoritatively by moments ago. The old man ignored the biting as best he could, knowing that the suffered venom would ease the greater wound gashed into his leg a lifetime ago that was still shooting bullets of wartime memory into his every step. He had been quite young and idealistically envisioned, the day it had happened, ready to set forth upon the morrow to a first battle and glory in the name of the King, smiting enemies and cursing their blasphemous philosophies. He was standing near a street, full of energy and righteousness, when an importantly chauffeured vehicle carrying an Officer of Consequence to a social luncheon, sped around the corner and angrily kicked him into the edge of a nearby brick wall, which in turn savagely lashed out at his leg, breaking the bone and opening a wide gash with its masonaried claws. He lay there on his back, looking up in surprised pain as people scurried over to give conflicting advice, seeing the unblinking, deep eye-blue sky staring down at his shock whitened face while his blood cried out in deep, patriotic red. He had subsequently been situated in a nearby healer’s institution, the back and forth business of succor and death moving all around him with occasional attentive blessings from Angelic Beings who nursed him away from the Dark Gates of Oblivion and otherwise left him on his own. A full frontal charge from a Ranking Officer was held in ceremonial dignity and pomp, with a stiff, “Tough luck, kid,” offered as gruff obligatory fulfillment of responsibility, followed by a quick retreat. It was never made clear if this Officer was the same whose vehicle had taken such a spontaneous dislike to the man, or if it was a randomly performed mission, met and checked off a list of many such actions, by whoever had had such duty at that time.
He was sent home, discharged with a ‘Job Well Done’ citation and a token monthly stipend, then otherwise forgotten by his country. He convalesced and lived with his mother in the house where he had been raised, in a neighborhood just outside the moving streets and towering aisles of The City. His father had died years ago in an industrial accident at the factory where he worked, sacrificed to the Gods of Progress on the Altar of Efficiency, revered as an Example of Safety Reform Implementation by his co-workers and enshrined as a bland statistic in a corporate filing cabinet. A representative of The Company had come by the house soon after the accident, said that her husband had been a good worker and had not complained, proffered deep and sincerely memorized scripted sympathies, handed her an envelope with some money in it collected by his co-workers and left. Since then she had reverted to Nature to support her small needs by growing flowers in the back yard and selling them to nearby restaurants and stores.
The man stayed with his mother, offered sacrifice of his time and labors to the same local factory to which his father had been obligated, and had given his life. Although his wounded leg would occasionally cry out for mercy and distract him he was able to fulfill his Duties as Citizen and was thus ignored by the Powers that Be. He took care of his mother when she became too old and frail to sell her flowers, giving the Authorities no reason to take notice, and after she died he lived alone in the house. He worked at the factory for many more years until, as the times changed and the needs of society focused on new diversions, the factory closed and he was let go. His leg had begun to complain to him more often and so he wasn’t terribly disappointed. He had saved a little money and he still received his monthly stipend from the government, and so, since his needs were few, he was able to keep the house and continue with his life.
Over time, the neighborhood had gradually changed and evolved as The City had grown, spreading like a concrete, steel and glass garden without a conscientious gardener to guide, cultivate or weed, until the towering, lifeless plants and shrubs of urbania engulfed his neighborhood with progress and development. Most of the other houses in the area, yielding to the needs of the moment, were torn down and replaced by high rise buildings, shops and parking lots. The scenes of the comfortably familiar city became less comforting and less familiar as he grew older, became more and more a place of confusion, motion and noise that scared and intimidated the man. The people he once knew passed on and disappeared, and the people that now surrounded him, that flowed and passed by him like water around a protruding rock in a cold stream, were ever changing yet always the same, strangers who would look at him with suspicion or contempt if they noticed him at all.
And now, decades later, he was an old man walking down the endless street that stretched from the past into the future, coming home to the house which was momentarily held in the stasis between stability and progress, familiarity and change, where he had a last bastion against the encroachment of civilization’s impetus. He had been to the park a few blocks away where his parents had taken him as a small child to run and play in the wide open-spaced sunshine. The park was now trimmed, folded and tucked neatly into a small triangle between busy streets and haughty buildings, but the afternoon sunshine still found its way to gaze upon the small patch of grass, trees and lone bench where the man would sit, soaking in the bright, comforting warmth. And when the sun would all too quickly move on to its business further west, the man slowly, painfully walked back home, hobbling slow and steady, with his stiffened serpent in his hand, biting and gnawing yet giving support against his shrieking leg. He paid little heed to the city around him, the children who made fun of him, the prostitute who laughed at him, the others who, for their own reasons, ignored him in reflected self-absorption. Night was coming and they all would be lost to inconsequential significance in the encompassing darkness.
The man came to his house, walked up the front steps, fished in his pocket for his key, fumbled a moment with the lock, turned the handle, opened, stepped inside and closed the door behind.
The door looked out at the endless street, snarled once and was quiet.

Oh, yeah, I'm back for a quick note

A quick note only 2 weeks later: I'm busy... I'll be back (working on the website... check it out ( www.inspirationscrossing.com ) I send out a great big apology to my thousands of avid readers...