Static // [Orville Oneshot]
Jun 29, 2015 20:41:21 GMT -5
Post by admin kay on Jun 29, 2015 20:41:21 GMT -5
ORVILLE REED KING
"Thanks for coming, Orv. Thanks for coming, Orv. Oooorrrrrvvvv." What a strange to say. He imagined an Orv was a green bubble, growing right out of the ground, all the way to the sky. No, all the way to moon. It wasn't happy or sad, just a bubble filled with unchanging. While the rest of the world rotated, the moon bowing to the sun, the bubble was always the same. Static.
"Knock it off, boy. You're on my last goddamn nerve."
Orville lifted his head. Across the sweaty table in the sweaty office of the sweaty chipping plant, his boss glowered at him with flat discs for eyes.
"I can't put you nowhere else. You understand. After Tate got himself picked, there ain't no one left to look after ya. And it ain't like you're a good worker. You know that, right? Any fool could sort nails, but it's taken you two days and that pile ain't any smaller. I'm not running a charity here."
He bobbed his head, testing the straight of his neck. He was going to be ready, if the boss tried to drag him out. But the other man sighed and turned back to his pile of paper, which had been made just outside, by the trees that Sue and he had helped cut down. He knew the trees didn't hurt when they fell to pieces.
But he would.
He flicked a flat topped nail across his mat. If he was doing a bad job, it was because his boss made no sense. He'd been accused of doing poor work, but here he was, sitting in front of a perfectly well organized set of nails. He'd considered sorting them by: weight, strength, flexibility, tip sharpness, roundness of top, length. In the end, the answer was clear: a nail was a nail was a nail.
One pile for them all. Just like the reaping bubble.
He put his forehead to the mat, pressing back along his spine until the weight released into his legs. He could feel the whole length of his neck this way, his very soft neck. It wasn't a good neck, not like his friend, Sue Tate's. He'd seen him, more than he ever had. All over the District. In the diner, in the laundromat, even at work and at home. Sue Tate was everywhere. But whenever he tried to talk to him, he didn't talk back. He always had his head turned, talking to someone else behind the screen. The last time he'd seen him, that morning, in the mess hall's television, he'd walked right up and put his fingers to the throbbing pulse at his neck.
He hadn't felt it. He hadn't felt anything but glass and cold. One of the other lumberworkers had hauled him out after he'd started screaming. He hadn't been screaming at Sue, he'd tried to say. He just needed a reminder. That was all. No one else would listen; they just sent him back to the office. There he sat, with a perfectly well sorted pile of nails and a soft neck, trapped in his little green bubble of static.
"Knock it off, boy. You're on my last goddamn nerve."
Orville lifted his head. Across the sweaty table in the sweaty office of the sweaty chipping plant, his boss glowered at him with flat discs for eyes.
"I can't put you nowhere else. You understand. After Tate got himself picked, there ain't no one left to look after ya. And it ain't like you're a good worker. You know that, right? Any fool could sort nails, but it's taken you two days and that pile ain't any smaller. I'm not running a charity here."
He bobbed his head, testing the straight of his neck. He was going to be ready, if the boss tried to drag him out. But the other man sighed and turned back to his pile of paper, which had been made just outside, by the trees that Sue and he had helped cut down. He knew the trees didn't hurt when they fell to pieces.
But he would.
He flicked a flat topped nail across his mat. If he was doing a bad job, it was because his boss made no sense. He'd been accused of doing poor work, but here he was, sitting in front of a perfectly well organized set of nails. He'd considered sorting them by: weight, strength, flexibility, tip sharpness, roundness of top, length. In the end, the answer was clear: a nail was a nail was a nail.
One pile for them all. Just like the reaping bubble.
He put his forehead to the mat, pressing back along his spine until the weight released into his legs. He could feel the whole length of his neck this way, his very soft neck. It wasn't a good neck, not like his friend, Sue Tate's. He'd seen him, more than he ever had. All over the District. In the diner, in the laundromat, even at work and at home. Sue Tate was everywhere. But whenever he tried to talk to him, he didn't talk back. He always had his head turned, talking to someone else behind the screen. The last time he'd seen him, that morning, in the mess hall's television, he'd walked right up and put his fingers to the throbbing pulse at his neck.
He hadn't felt it. He hadn't felt anything but glass and cold. One of the other lumberworkers had hauled him out after he'd started screaming. He hadn't been screaming at Sue, he'd tried to say. He just needed a reminder. That was all. No one else would listen; they just sent him back to the office. There he sat, with a perfectly well sorted pile of nails and a soft neck, trapped in his little green bubble of static.
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