r/WritingPrompts • u/Cody_Fox23 Skulking Mod | r/FoxFictions • Mar 21 '21

Constrained Writing [CW] Smash 'Em Up Sunday: Muzak

Welcome back to Smash ‘Em Up Sunday!

 

Come Read Along

 

It has been asked for for quite some time, and I’m finally comfortable - over a year later - to officially offer it. SEUS will now have a campfire event. Sunday morning at 9:30 AM Eastern in our Discord server’s voice chat, come hang out and listen to the stories that have been submitted be read. I’d love to have you there!

 

Last Week

 

Blues brought out some heartfelt stories. Emotions rose and exploded, and a weirdly recurring werewolf theme. My fault for mentioning the moon I guess! Still the stories were superb as always and I enjoyed seeing the different ways people dove into the Blues. We might get a little weird moving forward though.

 

Cody’s Choices

 

 

Community Choice

 

We had such a large turnout of Commmunity Choice I decided to bring back a Top 3 in the community format!

  1. /u/EdsMusings - “The Musings of a Bard Pt. 2” - Sometimes you just need help awakening a latent talent.

  2. /u/HedgeKnight - “Fireball” - You can’t pursue the Blues, they find you.

  3. /u/katpoker666 -”Feeling Blue” - There is history to the Blues.

 

This Week’s Challenge

 

Alright, my wonderful SEUSers, with micro over let’s enjoy the longer wordcount. Want to get flowery? Go for it! Want to squeeze in a ton of action? Also fine!

This month we are going to use different musical genres (very broad terms to allow for freedom) each week. You can try to make your stories involve the type of music, or take place in a setting that would be associated with it. Or do anything else really, just try to keep it connected somehow.

We are going to take a bit of a hard turn in tone this week. At first a oke on the Discord server, I kind of want to see where you all can take this idea. Next week will be more welcoming, but for this week I want to look at Muzak. Although technically music made by a specific company it became eponymous with any soft background music that kept awkward silence away. Elevator music is another name. Soft, sedate, and almost unnoticeable there is a fine art here. In recent years, many of its hallmarks and sound have been adopted by vaporwave if you want another angle to look at this from. I have faith in all you writers reading this. Give it a shot!

 

How to Contribute

 

Write a story or poem, no more than 800 words in the comments using at least two things from the three categories below. The more you use, the more points you get. Because yes! There are points! You have until 11:59 PM EDT 27 March 2021 to submit a response.

After you are done writing please be sure to take some time to read through the stories before the next SEUS is posted and tell me which stories you liked the best. You can give me just a number one, or a top 3 and I’ll enter them in with appropriate weighting. Feel free to DM me on Reddit or Discord!

 

Category Points
Word List 1 Point
Sentence Block 2 Points
Defining Features 3 Points

 

Word List

  • Store

  • Gentle

  • Imperceptable

  • Dead

 

Sentence Block

  • Time stretched on forever.

  • It sounded awful.

 

Defining Features

  • Nothing of great importance happens. I don’t mean nothing, but keep the stakes low and craft a very chill story. It’s harder than you think!

  • The whole story is contained within a single place.

 

What’s happening at /r/WritingPrompts?

 

  • Nominate your favourite WP authors or commenters for Spotlight and Hall of Fame! We count on your nominations to make our selections.

  • Come hang out at The Writing Prompts Discord! I apologize in advance if I kinda fanboy when you join. I love my SEUS participants <3 Heck you might influence a future month’s choices!

  • Want to help the community run smoothly? Try applying for a mod position. You’ll get a cool tattoo that changes every time you ban someone!

 

I hope to see you all again next week!

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u/EdsMusings Mar 27 '21

The musings of a bard, part 3

“Flight 309, Bangkok City, is now boarding at Gate 7.” The intercom’s voice reverberated through the airport hall. People passed on by with bags. Through the speakers of the nearby bar, an electric piano could be heard.

Jeff Ruster sat on a bench, looking at the airplanes. He went to the airport out of habit, having been a pilot for several years, before losing himself in the bottle. Nobody knew him anymore. He was a relic of the old times, imperceptible to today’s society. He’d chuckle when he thought about that.

Sometimes, he bought the cheapest ticket he could find, just to get to the duty-free part of the airport. Then he’d enter a store and come out with way too many things. But at least it costs less, he always thought.

He grabs an M&M out of its bag and starts eating it.

A man walked over to the bench and sat down next to him. “Why are airports so damn busy? Back in my day, the busiest place in town was the well when it had rained.”

Jeff ignored him, and ate another M&M.

“Oh, sorry I forgot. I’m Ed, some call me The Bard. And you’re” he squinted his eyes “Jeff Ruster, correct?”

Jeff turned to look at the man. He wore a black suit and a tie. His brown hair was slick. A bag stood between his legs. It looked like a guitar bag, but the head was turned backwards.

“Oh, this thing? A lute.” He grabbed the bag and zipped it open. A pear-shaped, stringed instrument appeared. On the side, engravings of medieval scenes were etched. The man started tuning it. It sounded awful, at first. But once the strings got in tune, its sound turned into a mixture of harp and guitar.

“Alright, what to play, what to play. Let’s hear what’s on the radio.” The man stood up and walked over to the bar. He asked something to the bartender, who took a remote, pointed it at the speakers, and turned up the volume.

“Sweet mother of, is this music? Damn, Nietzsche, it isn’t God who’s dead, it’s music. Where’s the spice in this? Turn it down please.” He walked back to the bench.

Jeff didn’t know what to expect of this man. He knew his name, had a weird instrument, sounded like he was from a different time. Is he mentally ill?

“Jeff, I’ll show you what real music is like.” The man started playing his instrument, gently plucking the strings.

All the sounds in the airport vanished. Jeff could only hear the man’s playing. Sweet melodies drifted in his ears, and his head slowly rocked back and forth. Time didn’t exist anymore, seemingly stretching on forever one time, then all going by at once.

He didn’t notice the man had stopped playing until the intercom went on again.

“Don’t fret it, Jeff. You need some alone time. But don’t spend it at an airport, where the music is a crime to one’s ears. And when you’re done, don’t go back to your 9 to 5 life. Live in the moment. People nowadays don’t do that anymore. And by god, listen to real music. There are so many musicians out there who put their soul into their music. Listen to Mozart, listen to Stefon Jackson, listen to whatever and whoever you want. But don’t listen to this bullshit.” The man grabbed an M&M, stood back up and walked away.

Jeff took a deep breath and turned around. But the man was nowhere to be seen.

2

u/wordsonthewind Mar 27 '21

I arrived at the gas station right on time for the graveyard shift. It sounded awful, but the pay was better than anything I could get by daylight. I'd wanted to get out of the house anyway. 

Time stretched on forever in the dead hours of the night. But it had been drilled into me and all the other trainees: if we had time to lean, we had time to clean. With that motto in mind, I set about busying myself with the affairs of the store.

I wiped down the cash register and countertop first. The main office provided us with wipes, but this late I had to make do with rubbing alcohol and paper towels. At least it smelled clean.

Decontamination done, I pondered my next move. The hot food display case always looked pathetic at this time of the night, populated by broken pastries and leftover hotdogs nobody wanted. I'd have to throw them out soon, in about five minutes if I wanted to be precise, then switch the case off and clean it. Restocking was left to the morning crew.

Of course, I also knew that what I was supposed to do was put them in the freezer for the morning crew to heat up and place back in the display the next day.

The doors slid open. The resulting rush of warm night air and not-at-all-imperceptible whiff of gasoline alerted me to a customer long before the recorded gentle bell chime did.

The man who walked in wasn't clean in the slightest. His hair was shaggy and matted, and there were stains on his fingers, clothes and teeth. His bleary eyes seemed to look aimlessly everywhere before settling on the hot food display.

"Gimme a hotdog," he mumbled.

"They've... uh, they've been there for a while now," I blurted out. "I could recommend the chilled—"

"Gimme a hotdog."

Rule Zero, I thought. The customer is always right. That's why they call it a convenience store.

I couldn't come up with a pun that organically terrible, of course. That had been my manager.

"Right away, sir."

I put on a pair of disposable gloves, removed a hotdog and jabbed a skewer into it. Then I put the skewer in a paper bag.

The man slid a pair of dollar bills across the counter. Exact change.

"Thank you!" I said to his retreating back.

Well, it'd been less than five minutes. The sausage was probably better off in his belly than being served again the next day. Daytime customers tended to complain more.

I looked at the display case again. Then I took off my gloves and dropped a few coins into the register. With the transaction entered and a fresh set of gloves on, I took out one of the broken pastries and began to munch on it.

Fuck it, I had an employee discount.

4

u/thegoodpage Mar 27 '21

Snapshot

The elevator door opens.

It opens to reveal a snapshot of the brightly lit floor. Some people were milling about, while others weaved through the crowd with a purpose. Smiling store clerks stood with poise at the entrance of their respective outlets, samples or brochures in hand.

You watch quietly as these strangers go on with their day.

A kid flies across your view, closely chased by an older girl. A sibling maybe.

The elevator door closes before the girl’s outstretched fingertips touch the back of the boy’s green shirt.

There is no one else there with you, and time starts to stretch on forever. You notice the gentle music lulling you, urging you to close your eyes. You lean your head backwards, against the cool wall. Your hair just barely brushes the rail.

The elevator door opens.

People come surging in, filling the air with a tinge of sweat. The music disappears beneath the conversation and rustling paper bags. You can no longer see what’s going on outside and the elevator door closes.

You notice that people are vaguely aware of you in the corner. No one talks to you.

The elevator door opens.

This time, people start streaming out. A man with black trousers stumbles over a lady in a flowery dress, who shoots him a dirty look. Someone else’s bag snags on the edge of the door and it tears. The space in front of you is clear again.

You see another snapshot, that as a whole, is almost imperceptible to the other one. There’s still a throng of people, and colorful stores with happy clerks inviting them in. But you do not see the boy and girl playing.

Instead, your eye catches a family of three. The boy is on his dad’s shoulders, one hand gripping his black hair, the other raised. You know, from experience, that he is enjoying being the tallest person in the world. The mom walks next to them. Her head turns towards your direction slightly. She’s beaming.

A guy slips into the elevator, phone pressed to ear, and narrowly misses the closing door. He is wearing one of those dark blue hats and shirts you’ve seen the supermarket people wear. The person on the other end is shouting in a gruff voice. You cannot see the guy’s face or decipher the snippets you hear, but it sounded awful. Even you understood that it was something bad. The knuckles of his clenched fist is turning white. You want to hold his hand, but familiar stern words from your mom rings through your head, so you don’t.

The call abruptly silences. The guy’s hand drops to his side slowly, the knuckles over his phone white as well. He suddenly notices you and his eyebrows furrow. His mouth parts, and he is about to say something.

The elevator door opens.

He checks the floor before running out with a backwards glance at you.

You ignore everyone else and fixate on his rapidly shrinking body as the distance between the two of you widens.

The elevator door closes.

You are alone again. For the first time since this ride, you leave your corner. You reach upwards but your fingers don’t quite meet the first button. You consider jumping, but you remember more stern words from grownups. So you focus on the soft music again. It sounds like something your mom plays for you at bedtime. You retreat to your corner.

The elevator door opens.

“Oh thank god, there you are!”

It’s Mom. She comes towards you with her arms out, the ends of her red jacket fluttering. Your feet briefly leaves the ground as she hugs you. Her familiar sweet scent is overpowering.

“I almost thought you were dead or something,” she mutters under her breath and over the nice music.

You shrug and grin. You’re just ready to finally enter the snapshot.

---

WC: 648

Thanks for reading! Feedback welcome :) If you liked that, feel free to check out my sub for more!

2

u/Isthiswriting Mar 26 '21

The note floated down from the speaker cleverly hidden in the ceiling. It was clearly a quarter note with neither the urgency of an eighth note nor the stateliness of a half. The gentle twirling of the note gave proof of a B sharp but the almost imperceptible jerks and lunges showed a desire to be an A flat.

It and its brethren floated down around the heads of a married couple who were arguing in a way that is only possible when you either know someone intimately or despise them deeply. This couple seemed to be both and it sounded awful. The notes, with the B sharp leading the charge, fought against the discordant waves of the voices clashing and overlapping.

Finally the charge of the sound brigade broke through and the notes began the next, delicate phase of their operation. They danced rhythmically in 4/4 time around and between the heads of the couple. Slowly the couple's anger dropped away as if it had been left behind by the rising of the elevator, some things never get the credit they deserve. It was then, that it was possible to see the young couple they had once been, before they knew what life had in store for them, before they woke up each morning hoping the other was dead.

As the couple’s argument faded to murmurs and they stared into each other’s eyes, time stretched on forever. The little quarter B sharp faded while twirling between them, its job done. But time is fleeting and soon a bell chimed and the car shuddered as the doors opened. The moment was gone and voices rose once more in anger as they stepped off the elevator.

It was no Breznegart but this Muzak stuff served a purpose and it wasn’t so bad.

3

u/GammaGames Mar 25 '21 edited Mar 25 '21

Unpleasant Melody

The first time I heard that unpleasant melody, really heard it, was the day my fiancé died.

My manager caught me on my way back from a trip to the bathroom. I thought my frequent trips to mess around on the phone had been noticed and I was about to be reprimanded, my heart almost lept out of my mouth when he said the police wanted to talk privately. I tried to ask why—what I had done wrong. "I don't know," he said. "Whatever it is it looked serious."

I felt the judging eyes on me as I walked anxiously through the dense maze of cubicles to the elevator. My hand shook as I pressed the button to take me two floors down. Trying to hold it together, I crossed my arms tight and leaned against the wall. That was when I first noticed that unpleasant melody.

It had always been there, I suppose. Providing inane background noise to make the stuffy elevator a smidge more bearable. But I didn't want to hear it. I wanted to know what I had done to have the police pull me out of work and into a private meeting.

I hadn't done anything. A drunk driver had hopped the curb at 9 in the morning and ripped away my future in the blink of an eye. "He didn't suffer," they tried to assure me. My jaw hung open as I searched for a response. The first thing my mind managed to grab hold of was an apology. I apologized as if I had caused them some inconvenience.

They followed as I crawled up the stairs to get my belongings. The only living soul I wanted to see was Elijah, and that wouldn't be happening. Without realizing it, my slow climb had spared me from that unpleasant melody.

It greeted me on the way back to the lobby. It sounded awful, pulling my thoughts back to those nervous moments just minutes before. A blissful time when Elijah was still waiting for me at home, ready to greet me and make the world's pains evaporate.

The thought made me spill my coffee, along with a half-digested raisin and cinnamon bagel, across the elevator's faux-wood paneling.

The music returned during his eulogy. I sat in the pew, family on all sides providing support for each other, when it stuck into the back of my mind like a splinter. Elijah's father grabbed my arm gently as I spun and tried to pinpoint the noise's source. "Are you alright?" he said with a concerned look. He had the same eyes as Elijah, miniature galaxies of deep green with a brilliant hazel ring in the center. I wasn't alright.

The phantom elevator music followed me to the cemetery. It followed me home. That cheerful drone echoed quietly in the back of my head from that moment onward.

I didn't try to sleep in our bed; the pillows and sheets would still hold his smell and I wasn't ready to start boxing up my past. As I tossed restlessly on the couch, that melodic sliver pulsing, I had to suppress it.

Grabbing the nearest record, I cranked up the sound system and filled my ears with Road to Ruin. "Nothing to do. Nowhere to go," I heard as I drifted off to sleep. "I wanna be sedated."

I needed food by the third day. I wore a pair of over-ear headphones to cover that constant, unpleasant melody. The dirty looks I got from the leaking music ensured I wouldn't be making a return trip to the civilized world. From then on, the blaring speakers would have to be my safe haven.

The splinter festered with time, throbbing and infecting my head. Every other day an imperceptible knock would come to the front door. I watched from behind the curtain as they delivered a new set of speakers I had ordered online, reaching out for the package only when their truck had continued down the street.

Weeks went by. Most nights I roamed through the pounding darkness until I collapsed from exhaustion.

One morning, the sun blinded me awake. That unpleasant melody engulfed me, pushing me to the floor with a crash. I held my ears to the speaker's thumping diaphragms, rattling my skull but hearing no outside sound. Even on max volume, I couldn't drown out that music.

Red and blue lights flashed through my windows to notify me of a visitor. I nodded at the officer as if I could hear what he was saying. Noise violation, his form said. I clicked off the speakers at his request, it's not like they were helping anyway.

I haven't been able to escape that unpleasant melody since that dreadful day, and I fear I never will.

WC795
Feedback welcome, I'm not sure how well the 1st person past and repeated phrases worked!

5

u/vibrant-shadows Mar 25 '21

You flipped the pages of the magazine between lazy fingers, pretending to understand the nuance between each glassy-eyed model staring up at you. Fleeting thoughts of bravery hung over your head in a dense cloud, making it difficult to focus on what were supposedly this season’s most fashionable appearances. On a good day they would have meant nothing to you; today, even less.

The woman greets you with a smile before welcoming you back, and you set the magazine down with a sigh of relief. Her passion seemed far too vibrant to compliment your own passivity, and the radiant lights beyond framed her in an angelic glow. But you trusted her expert hands to tame the humanity that had become all too visible, all too distracting. Each step forward led you deeper into a corridor of mirrors, silver that showed reflections of what could be as you were swallowed by warmth and white noise.

Worry dissipated when you melted into the chair, your eyes staring up at the ceiling, neck pressing against the cool basin. Time stretched on forever as nimble fingers worked through your hair, sending you deeper into a meditative trance with each rhythmic stroke against your scalp. You didn’t speak, for the roar of water by your ears was all but deafening. Peace wrapped around you with each pulse of tepid water, stretching streams into whispers, then into laughter as you were rudely awakened from tranquility.

Talk of weather filled the air, of opportunities without names, of distant hopes and dreams which left your mouth effortlessly. She had hopes and dreams too, you learned, as she cast dead ends to the floor with each clash of her blades. You watched seamless movements from the corner of your eye as she worked, her art fluid as a dancer, body poised yet nonchalant.

And for all your own talk of aspirations, you had yet to change.

Last night you had dreamt of something bold. Of a true self within the outer self, a just-recognizable creature begging to break free. It was the image of a righteous ascent, the raw grace of becoming. Was this to be your metamorphosis?

Just a bit, you told her. Restore me to what I was. You had to stumble backwards into something familiar, the only thing reminiscent of home in this liminal space. The scent of transformation had made you sedate. Or perhaps it was simply nerves you refused to name. But in the moment you swallowed the sharpness of the air and scissors cutting through time as though they were birdsong, drawing you ever closer to the embrace of familiarity.

The hands of the clock were frozen in place, motion imperceptible as you studied their progression. Sweet words may as well have been silence, your thoughts competing in placid waves of static. A smile kissed the mirror and refracted out towards the bodies around you, all lost in their own routine. You felt no envy, not as your twin gazed back at you with knowing eyes. It was all you could do not to reach a hand out towards them, hungry for their touch, desperate for their secrets.

Her hands reached down and pulled the cape off, knuckles grazing your jaw gently. She apologized but you waved her off, sliding green rectangles across her counter before running fingers through the crown of your new self. Or perhaps your old self, the very person you had grown so distant from.

In a tired daze you wandered towards the doors of the salon, no longer worried about courage or lack therefore. The old self had reemerged, but you were changed nonetheless.

2

u/Mcdavies94 Mar 24 '21

Whispers

Dilapidated newspapers teeter obliquely, yellowing dates speaking volumes to events long past. You sit, staring at snowstorms dancing across the screen—the remote lying two clicks out of reach. You tip the last Stag over barnacled dentures, gurgling drops amidst the new spring's birds chirping madly. It sounded awful.

You lurch forward, calling for Dolores.

Deafening silence tickles the hairs curling, waxing out of your eardrums. Uncurling bitter fists, a back long spineless buckles out of its huddled den. The first place you feel pain is in your lower back. Discs slipped under the weight of so much cement. So many staircases you climbed to earn nothing, just to feed us.

Limping, left leg externally rotated ten degrees from sciatica. Sciatica that began when you built the treehouse for us. Ordering lumber, hauling ropes, sawing away sweat in the early summer evenings to engineer our hideaway. Except we didn't want to hide from you, we only wanted to spend time with you.

Groping the keychain, rust speckling your grip. The silence before the carpet absorbs that clean jangle happens all too fast. You stoop, bent-leg calipers popping over Achilles tendons long fossilized. The walls we put up were something to be conquered; you never asked why we built them in the first place. Feed us you did. Later: basic needs, the things other kids had, then gifts. So many horses passed through those walls in all their gilded glory. Then we grew up.

Combing the carpet, the plantar fasciitis kicks in. Toes curling as your back pocket hangs indecisively. Hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands of steps you walked when you started selling used cars. But you never saw me pretend to sleep as you passed my door on your way to work.

Standing up now is always difficult. Back then, it was a matter of the kind of day you had. On the good ones, it was as if you'd never carried a fifty-pound bag up three flights of stairs. Bad days the time stretched on forever.

You stare through the worn patches stitched into your favorite jacket, brushing back callused memories with your fingertips. The second sleeve doesn't seem to work anymore, flapping maniacally as your left shoulder leans into your lower back. But you force it, another tear.

Selling cars wasn't good enough, was it? You had to own the business too. Imperceptible are the adhesions that calcify a frozen shoulder. It's a steady drip that plays in the background, and before you know it, they've grown up. It's too late.

Your carpal tunnel came soon after, then the eye strain, the kyphosis. I woke up every time you came home, falling asleep to the gentle onomatopoeia of your keyboard.

You grip the handle of that door, head resigned to the cold cloud of glass. This is your daily ritual. Everyone who works at the store knows your name, birth date, address.

You stop. Why?

Turning to the wall, you pull yourself along to gaze intensely at the photo of a young girl. Sooty cheeks soon silty as yellowing eyes glisten.

Yes, she's dead. But she grew up; the others did too.

It's not your fault.

1

u/[deleted] Mar 24 '21

Girl from Ipanema

The blunt force of the baseball bat took another victim. They must have been in the hundreds. Teeth flashing like disco lights in the day.

“So, why did you think it was a fantastic idea coming here?!” Robin shouted.

She had been sweating bullets, swinging her bat from one side to the other.

The hits fell in rhythm to the gentle guitar plucks of Girl from Ipanema.

When she walks, she's like a samba – THUD – that swings so cool – THUD – and sways so gentle – THUD.

For some godforsaken reason the complete store fell apart, trucks burned, everything smelled of smoke, gasoline and monster juice but the crushed speaker on the concrete floor miraculously still spouted and dooted bootleg relaxation at full volume, screaming for old, soothing capitalist paradises.

Finally, Jack came back and responded.

“I thought we would find enough fuel.”

His shirt was completely wet and stunk off gasoline. He held a broken part of a lantern in his hand, covered in juices. Overall, he seemed miserable.

Robin nodded in the direction behind him. He turned around and discovered two more monsters crawling up to him and got back to work.

“Well, did you at least find some?” Robin inquired.

“Otherwise we found a hefty ton of jawbiters, a miserable pile of the dead and literally nothing else.”

He shrugged it off.

“Listen, I’m not here for your lectures. Just buy me some more time, okay? Almost there.”

Sounds an awful lot like an awful lot of nothing, Robin said to herself.

Her bat went on autopilot and smashed one biter at a time. The way back to the car was still blocked.

But not for long, Robin thought.
Just… a dozen… more…

That dozen soon turned into two. Then three. Time stretched on forever, and Jack didn’t seem like he cared enough to come back.

“HOY”, went a scream from the distance.

Robin jerked around. Way ahead on the other side of the parking lot she noticed a bright light being swung around wildly.

Emergency flare. Great.

Shaking off two biters, she ran across the lot, firmly grasping her bat, leaving trails of sweat, splinters and snatchers behind.

And sure enough, there was Jack swinging his torch, trapped behind a giant truck door, way upon piles of cars, hiding behind one of the extra-large variety, extra eyes and suckers and all.

“Sorry I kept ya waiting,” he chuckled, holding his flame in the direction of the giant pairs of eyes.

Robin was not amused.

“Uh…. Can you.. do your thing now?”

The monster crawled closer and closer up to his spot. Hairy legs slowly making their ways up through car doors and wreckages while the “nose” feverishly sniffed for Jack’s stench.

Robin stood still.

“Have you found any goddamn fuel yet?”

Cross-armed, she looked firmly up to him, biding any response that wasn’t an excuse.

“Look…”

I should have known better, she sighed.

Instead of listening, she reached into her backpack and pulled out a round, black object.

“STEP BACK, alright?” she screamed.

Jack tried his best to crawl even further behind his door. He was still aimlessly flailing, as he saw the black sphere flying directly into the stomach of the gigantic beast before him, immediately flaring up on contact.

With a loud bang, and a fading fizzle, the ball of flames faded away, taking out the monstrosity with an almost imperceptible scream, as Jack tumbled, as best and healthily as he could, down the large pile of wreckage.

He reached the asphalt with an awful sound, followed by a plastic thumping. Beside him fell a seemingly full and intact gas canister to the floor.

“So you did find something, eh?” Robin exclaimed in a snarky tone.

Jack slowly got up.

“Glad you think I’m doing fine.”

He padded out his clothes and looked for scratches. The door seemed to have caught most of the heat, so he was doing fine.

Still cross-armed, Robin stretched out her free arm and padded the dust off his shoulder.

“Tss, now come and get a move on” she said to him.

“We need to be back in an hour.”

In the background, faintly, The Girl from Ipanema still doodled through the broken speaker on the ground, as they both made their way back to the car.

5

u/WorldOrphan Mar 24 '21

Day-Dreaming

Peppy piano muzak played over the department store's intercom, an inexpert cover of an old Beatles tune. Kenzie folded the sweaters, keeping an eye on her vacant register. There had been a rush earlier, and she was still straightening up the mess the shoppers had left behind. This job was just to earn her some spending money while she was home from college for winter break, and it could be dreadfully dull. The music was all that kept her from falling asleep, sometimes.

Sweater table straightened, Kenzie drifted back to her register and surveyed the nearby shoppers. The music switched to a soft jazz love song. She spotted a young couple browsing men's shirts. She could tell they were in love by the gentle way their hands kept brushing each other, and the fond glances they kept stealing. Kenzie let the warm tones of the love song sink into her skin. Any moment now, the two might declare their undying love for each other. Yes. The man went down on one knee, reaching into his pocket. The woman turned, and their eyes met, a deep, soulful gaze. Then he lifted a small velvet box, opened it, and asked . . .

“Excuse me,” the young man said, pulling Kenzie out of her romantic fantasy. He held up a button-down shirt, his significant other hovering behind him. “Do you have any more of these in blue?”

Sighing, Kenzie checked the stock room for him and rang up their purchases. By then the love song had ended, followed by generic jazz. She had two more purchasers, then her register was deserted again. The music changed to a jangly guitar and piano combo with only a discordant approximation of a melody. It sounded awful. A spare man with thinning hair caught her eye, mostly because he was making a mess of the sweater table. Why was he looking at ladies' sweaters? She thought she saw his eyes slide repeatedly to the jewelry counter across the aisle, as if he were a thief casing the area. Yes. The man turned. He drew a handgun from his pocket and pointed it at the jewelry associate, who flung up her hands with a squeal of fright. “This is a robbery! Give me . . .”

“Kenzie, quit day-dreaming and go fold those sweaters.” Kenzie jerked. Her manager had wandered over, and the shady man had wandered off. Kenzie muttered something deferential and slunk to the sweater table. Her manager left to harass another employee, and Kenzie returned to her register. She rang up customers. She re-hung clothing from the dressing rooms. She re-folded the sweaters. Time stretched on forever. For her effort, she was rewarded with a string of tunes too-soothing that sounded like nothing at all, each one more mind-numbingly bland than the one before. Kenzie leaned on the counter, eyes losing focus as boredom ground into her soul.

“Excuse me!” a woman's voice barked. Kenzie looked around, then spotted a middle-aged woman with a 'Karen' haircut glaring at her. The woman raised her hand into the air and snapped her fingers. Kenzie resisted the urge to roll her eyes, and trotted over to her. She began interrogating Kenzie about sizes and prices, every word dripping with condescension. At last the woman dumped her armload of clothing onto Kenzie's counter. Kenzie rang her up quickly, trying to ignore the impatient way she drummed her fingers. The muzak was faster now, its gradual increase in tempo a subliminal counterpoint to Kenzie's hurried efforts to be rid of this customer-from-hell.

“What a bitch,” Kenzie muttered at the woman's retreating backside. People like that were the reason retail jobs sucked so much. Shameless bullies, they always got their way. Somebody ought to stand up to them. Yes. Kenzie abandoned her register and strode after the woman. “Excuse me,” she said, grabbing the woman by the arm and spinning her around. “Has it ever occurred to you that retail workers have feelings? Would it kill you to treat us as human beings once and a while? Nobody was put on God's green earth just to serve you, even if you magnanimously grant us with your business. If you're going to act like this, you can take your business and shove it up your . . .”

A chime echoed from the intercom. “Attention shoppers. The mall will be closing in thirty minutes.”

Kenzie sighed again and rested her forehead on the cold metal cash register. She only had nine more days of this, and then she would be back at college, with enough money for her own shopping trip with her friends. The store was emptying, and the music had slowed back to soothing, boring jazz. Nothing interesting ever happened there.

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