Desperation fiction

A sign of the times...

Corporate Man
Arms dangle off the deck rails, the smell of the rain sweet in his nostrils; he breathes deep, exhales through a mouth shaped like an O.
Ice cubes clink in the glass he holds in his right hand; his eyes go soft-focus at the flashes of lighting that build off to the north. A storm brewing. A storm brews all over these days.
He’s barefoot – the overhang and a south wind has kept the deck clear of rain – and a shiver runs up his spine. He takes a swig from the glass, amber and smoky and swallows. He thinks it’ll stave off the shivers, the confusion.
In his back pocket, another request from superiors to cut his pay. Along with it, a letter, a pep talk. He’s done with pep talks, he thinks. A flash of anger, like the lightening in the sky, and he grits his teeth hard. Another swallow. Another sigh.
Other workers text, email. He doesn’t send back. The desperation the messages convey are poison; the helplessness a quagmire. He can taste their defeat, the ones who explain it all away with, “At least I still have a job.”
He shakes his head in disgust; another swallow. He thinks, stares into the dusk, gapes into the coming storm.
There will be no uprising, he knows, no revolution.
The corporations have sprinkled saltpeter into everyone’s paychecks, making its workers impotent, harmless as a basket of kittens. An army of Eunuchs, ‘fraidycats.
He musters up the anger again, but it’s a slow burn, less intense. Maybe it’s the whiskey; maybe it’s the timing.
“At least I still have a job,” he says, draining the last swallow from the glass, which he lets fall from his grip and watches, transfixed, at it’s trajectory toward the cement.


Teri and the cats of Furrydance said...

as long as it's the glass on it's trajectory to it's fracturing, you will still have time to consider your options...