Dilosen Naicker
Mar 14, 2019 · 4 min read

His suede mustache held onto his upper lip as he smoked his joint, head tilted upwards slightly as to let the smoke float off upwards and to get sucked left into the extractor fan. The narcotic music pulsing in the background, coupled with the blue LED down lighting, elevated his mood and got him ready for the night.

He stood up firmly, clutching the ends of his denim jacket, pulling down firmly as to rise into his jacket from his seat, like it was the only thing keeping him fixed to the ground. His white converse shoes, with that red heart face on it — hummed blue in the down lighting. It’s eyes stared up at Your’s Truly.

He snubbed out his joint in the glass ashtray — the one with the shattered edges; where if you were not careful enough, it would cut your fingers as a reminder that you’re killing yourself in many other ways.

Turning with parting words, he exits the socios onto the carrer. It’s cold tonight he thinks as he begins to button up his denim jacket; all the way up to his neck. He’s already walking to the nearest underground metro station, only a few blocks away.

T-10 through and into the warmth. It was quiet too. A suburb station at midnight. He was heading into the city center, that would be near the previous mountain region known as Horta. There were flyers showing the picture of the child, a new type of human. Deprived of a body but consciously aware, they were all the rage. Every concerned parent got it done to their newborn. Singularity as they called it. He shuffled his mustache at that thought and grunted.

You see, our guy, he’s a purist. Not many around these days. Good ol' human being. Blood, sweat and tears. Emotions. Feelings and thoughts. But, it’s not like the child can’t have all of these things too. Where is your God nowadays, anyway?

'proxima parada: Horta' It said in a sultry Spanish accent as our guy shifts his stance, preparing for his exit. It’s a little busy, what with it being going to town. Our guy steps off the metro as the doors barely open and makes his swift way to the nearest salida.

Out and in the stale metro cold, he shuffles in his denim and places both hands firmly into the jacket pockets; as to hint at hiding something within each. Moving through the electronic turnstile, being careful not to touch anything, he exits to the surface; cool to the night. The street is relatively busy, at glance about 10 people. At an observation, 26. Bars are the busiest of course. The finest pale ales in all the city. Old town Gracias has some of the finer places, and the finer women. Only to find one with purists’ values at heart.

This past winter has been bitterly cold. This place was covered in snow he thought to himself as he passed the first bar. They were playing music from the 1980’s. He smirked at that because the bar seemed so out of place on this street. To be quite frank, he turned to look at it closer, this place has never been open. A faint glow came from the hallway. The store front was empty. It had the shelves but it was completely bare of anything; mannequins, wallpaper, colour. The only thing that could be seen was the blueish white light down the end of this long, dark hallway. Down that same hall came the blaring 1980’s music.

The door was one of those patio doors; the ones made of flimsy metal and plastic with a giant window. This one had a pet door, for some sort of animal. On closer inspection, our guy notices a reddish smudge with what looks to be greyish fur stuck between the flap and upper corner. Like it was ripped, hair from flesh. There was a piece of fleshy skin there too — like scab woundish.

Anyway, must be off. He turns and continues down the street towards the familiar route to her house. She’d be home for sure, especially at this hour. Wandering down the street, thinking thoughts about her and what she had said earlier, he came up to the road leading to her house. It was cobbled, like scales on a lizard. The sidewalks were asphalt. In the middle, there was grey granite and ever so often, drainage. These places weren’t as fancy as the water estates, but they were definitely more than where he lived.

Coming up the road he noticed an open window on the first floor. How strange he thought; a window so close to the ground. As he came up, he noticed movement within. A female. He could tell through the plants that also obscured his vision. He walked past, noticing her in her night robe, rolling what seemed to be a joint. Making eye contact, he continued past.

Getting to the entrance of her place, he searches for her number on the electronic dial pad and rings her. She buzzes him in and he goes through two doors because the mail needs someplace too. He takes the lift. One of those new fancy OTIS lifts he thinks to himself.

On her floor, he hears a muted ting ting ting from the walls. The walls seem sticky — like brown sludgy. He gets to her door easy enough. Decides to knock instead of ring. And then goes in.

People Are People

This is a publication of short stories about people who live in interesting times. I hope you enjoy.

Dilosen Naicker

Written by

Provisionally I, practically alive!

People Are People

This is a publication of short stories about people who live in interesting times. I hope you enjoy.

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