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.

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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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