The Temp

I turned up yesterday. Shipped in. They asked me ‘Should you be here?’. I had a hacking cough, or so I’m told. I thought I sounded fine. I’ve been better, I’ve been worse, for sure.

I typed and droned and danced and hurled my body from here to bloody there. A woman called Elaine briefly saved my life when the walls were caving in, and I helped to drag a body from the stairs when it was blocking the handyman’s route in.

If you could have seen the view from the window, it was savage. I looked down into the square where they were burning papers, books, and evidence of everything they’d done.

The shells were very loud, but a boy’s got to earn a living somehow. A little after 3pm the windows shattered and a soldier staggered in and looked me in the eye and moaned ‘it’s over!’ as he sank down by the printer.

He looked young. He had a cut across his face that made him look somehow asymmetrical. I like to think that I’d have died looking better.

This morning, by about eleven, only half a dozen office workers stayed, shredding, loading stuff into a truck to go somewhere with fewer high explosive shells raining down from the fucking sky.

I’m done, son. Put my feet up and have an iced bun, I make sure to take a lunch because I don’t get paid for more than seven hours. Although, to be fair, we might be overrun before five o’clock comes.


About dcduell

Failed musician. Trying to write for TV. Never sure quite where I'm headed. Serial un-funnyman. I used to do a lot of writing. Sometimes I still do. So I decided to put it on the internet. I'm on Facebook and Twitter. Pretty active on the former, not so much on the latter. Holler at me.
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