Sunburnt Speculations

They never really seem to dry out, these places. You can’t get away from the damp. The driveways squeak and glisten with rain spilling from the busses. The air is stale with the sweat of travelers and the acid stink of diesel and cold cement. The walls are finished in joyless tones of algae and fog. The plastic seats are sticky. Even the light here seems wet – oily, oozing through dust covered fluorescent tubes – sickly and weak.

The latest propaganda posters are on display to dampen hope. You’re supposed to identify with the characters, but you don’t want to look at them. They draw life out of you, taking it for themselves to build lies protected behind clouded Perspex.

No one speaks loudly. Couples murmur to each other. You can’t hear what they’re saying. Occasionally a child cries. A speaker chimes, “Forty-Six for East Sector Three; Forty-Six for East Sector Three”. A few heads look up to see if it’s right. But it’s not yours anyway and you stay looking down, your seat clinging to you, holding you back.

My task was to describe a scene in about 200 words without saying exactly what it is but letting the reader build a picture. I was thinking of an underground transit station. Perhaps you’ve been in one like it.