Short Story: Dead End
I wrote this a while ago. It was to do with an enrichment course I did in conjunction with NAGTY and the University of East Anglia. I was not a faithful writer back then, with work few and far between, and this was an exercise in writing for objects. Sadly, the item used was my last phone. I played around with this idea, and created this flash prose snapshot. I like the way it turned out. It is not long and not too short (although my mum, who likes reading through all my stuff, had a look and believed I should have taken it further. It seems finished to me).
Let me know what you think, dear reader. The only evidence that this blog is useful so far is the reports of other people on the way to lectures. Comments are welcome, criticisms will be tolerated, but hatemail will lead to some form of blog blocking and fingers in ears (or should that be a blindfold?).
Anyway, here it is.
And she thought, weird as she could be, that nobody could be that stupid. One important thing that any person has learnt today is not to leave your phone anywhere. But there it was, bold as brass yet invisible to the world. A phone with a flip-face screen.
When she was younger, oh how drab and dull it sounds, people looked after their things – cherished them. Time was, that you would only get a phone if you were really lucky. Now, every weekend you see children flashing their latest trends: nav-sat, web link, picture sharing, video messaging, and maybe – just maybe – this one can make phone calls.
This was not one of those phones: scuffed and slightly battered from countless bumps, bashes and drops, it was the only traveller on the Thameslink line without a railcard. Its owner was long gone.
For some reason, this female traveller – her – herself – felt some sort of connection to the phone, just resting on the seat. She would pick it up and hand it in on her next stop.
It rings in her hand. Caller ID pops up: home.
It rings. And she hasn’t the heart to answer.
It rings off. One missed call, the screen says.
Now guilt comes, welling from the stomach. Her thumbs grope the buttons, and the images flicker: phonebook, caller ID, last number redial. She presses ‘ok’, though she knows it’s not ‘ok’.
And listens to the voice on the other end.
‘Hello? Hello? Is that Steve? Just get back soon. Hello?”
The phone cuts out dead. No battery. She gets off at Mill Hill Broadway – her stop – and leaves the dead end thing alone.
Yes, it's depressing. I walk the fine line between the emo-core blog and the home made page. I'm doing my best to create some variety in my work. Come back tomorrow for some more bloggage*.
*bloggage: an amalgamation of blog and emotional baggage