Trash Day

They were lined up before dawn again at that old, white house today. The desperate ones, that didn’t ration themselves out quite right and wind up milling around the street waiting for the morning delivery. The sun’s come up on the avenue. Now some old addict walks, bent near sideways, holding broken glasses tight to his face. He’s looking too casual as he searches. For the odd, stray pill dropped on the asphalt or maybe the lawn. I don’t think he notices as I pass him on my way home from the run down park where the bus picks the kids up for school.

They don’t bother me much most days, except when their memory gets fuzzy and forget that they’re not supposed to come up in my yard.

It’s more likely they’ll get violent with each other than with anyone else. Usual only ever gets as far as them yelling about who owes who what money, or who took that last dose. They all owe each other something it seems. Most days they keep it low key. They have to, or Big Tattoo will run ‘em off.

Too much noise is bad for business I guess.

The cops? They all know what’s going on here. They know about all the other houses in the neighborhood just like it. They’re not going to do a god damned thing either, not unless someone calls in a complaint. When that happens, they’ll probably just tell you that “It’s under investigation” and push some papers around the office. 

Who are they going to arrest anyway? No big busts to be had here, no feathers in a cap. None of the knuckle heads are ever have the stuff on them for too. No big stash is kept there. Operation’s supplied by a system of small timers and junkies on rusted out bikes; they do all the leg work. Some young punk with a voice like sandpaper runs the business end, and Big Tattoo keeps them all in line. Pretty sure the kids hanging out at the end of the street are lookouts. Ready to make that call, warning them every time a cruiser heads their way.

It’s not even their house. They just sling their shit off the front porch.

Place belongs to some poor old guy in his seventies. They offered him a cut at first. Social security wasn’t quite making ends meet, so why the hell not? It was just a little weed when it started. He probably should have seen it coming. Maybe he did. Hard to say, old fool is so drunk most of the time no one can really understand him. I can hear the fear though, when he mumbles at the night about how it’s his house. The sadness when he mutters about not seeing any money from them.

And they all know me and, they all know where I live. This is the nicest part of town we’ve lived in for years.

My bad knee creeks as I walk up stairs. Groaning when I realize, I have to make another trip down with the garbage.

It’s trash day, and it’s all gotta go down to the curb.

The City of Berian

It was just before dusk as the sky ship swam lazily through the oppressive summer air towards our destination. The amber glow of the setting sun highlighted the needle like spires of the docks that rose even higher than the grand dome of the ancient cathedral, or the highest towers of the palace of Prince Ethaniel. This was the first time I had visited Berian, the capital of our grand province, and though I considered my self to be fairly cosmopolitan I must confess I was awed by its size and majesty. Taggart, my family’s trusted servant who had been charged to ensure my safe arrival at the university, pointed how many of the buildings boasted new construction to raise them up closer to the activity of the sky docks. There were even ladders and walkways built to span the gaps between structures, roadways and avenues were being made among the rooftops of the city. If one were to look closely you could see tents and stalls of merchants littered a midst the gargoyles and crenelations of the newly found elevations of the city.

Once our vessel was securely hooked to a spire we disembarked and took the long basket ride down to the more traditional streets of the metropolis. As we descended I became familiar with the various layers of smells that blanketed the capital. The heavy damp summer air of the afternoon mingled with the odor of coal and wood smoke from the chimneys of the residences and workhouses. Travelling lower down the floral perfumes of the higher classed bordellos and hotels of leisure were added. Finally, once on the ground, the ripe pedestrian smells of food, alcohol and sweat from the taverns and inns that surrounded the sky dock completed the bouquet of the city. I began to marvel at the naivety of my beloved parents for thinking that this wondrous and sinful locale might somehow provide distraction from my own natural curiosity and  reckless behaviors. After all, attending university would hardly be akin to being sequestered in a monastery.

Taggart and his cohort fell in around in an effort to shield me from the dangerous and immoral activities of fruit vendors, street tumblers, jugglers, and tavern goers, as well as the occasional prostitute and potential sneak thief as we traveled through the cobbled streets and alleyways towards the more desirable, wealthier, and better smelling areas of the city. We traveled uptown past the provincial palace it’s wonderfully clean stone facade, behind its stone walls and black iron gates, complimented by the nearby lush gardens of red and yellow flowers, the same hues that occupied the crest of the royal family. Farther away on another hill we could spy the gilt and stained glass dome of the Cathedral of the Patrons that we had seen from the distance as we flew over the city; one of the many marvels of the empire, not just of our humble province.

Just a little further on and we passed through the gates of the University of Berian, its white marble edifice shone in the last of the days dying light. The fabled Ivory Tower of education in the province. Here less than hundred years ago Leumas Nerals created his magnificent device, that gave to the empire the power of flight. Here in the dormitories of this fine institution I would reside for the foreseeable future, far from my family’s home. After being received by the Deans, and explaining the lateness of our arrival, I said my goodbyes to Taggart and the other men that had accompanied me here. I was escorted by one of the schools porters to my room. It was a small space that I was informed I would be sharing with two other young men, who I was quite anxious to meet. As I unpacked my things and tried to settle in I found myself staring out of the singular window of my new bedroom, past the rolling green lawns of the campus below and out into the city that would be my new home.  My mind wandered back to the events at Persley Station some days ago, and the horror, and carnage I found at that old barrow. Though I was still haunted by the images of that night, my mind held an odd fascination of the experience. I began to wonder,perhaps with a touch of hope, if that would just be the first of such adventures for me.

This narrative inspired  by a Weekly Challenge.