The Habit (Flash Fiction Contest Entry)

The quiet pensioner laced his fingers at his breast, his woolen pullover furrowing like a fertile pasture. 

If you spied him now amid the porcelain mugs and tattered volumes you’d think him asleep, his workman’s boots anchored on the chair opposite, face at once restful and studious.

The watchman’s cabin huddled beneath the main body of the metalworks, somehow always submerged in its shadow as though protected by a secret charm. 

An autumn downpour gently assailed the hideout, collecting on one side of the corrugated roof and coursing down one starkly painted wall.

Outside, the din of the factory is distant and exotic.  A staccato electronic chime calls across the empty spaces, its echo redoubling its strangeness like spice.  An amplified voice calls out, its message arcane.

The watchman stretches one arm out to clasp a steaming night-time drink, his seat groaning like old houses.  The sight through his window is a liquid assembly of raincloud hues and he liked to stare directly into it, watching as the colours swap and shapes chase one another, knowing he need do nothing to earn such a show.

But he was tugged by the knowledge of his papers before him: they seemed superior, more questions than he could answer tonight yet more would appear tomorrow.  His lips pressed together tightly and his breath became hasty as he wondered if this time his old mind would fail.

Then the mood lifted as the muffled roar of a pallet truck filled the air.  The cabin was washed with an electric glare, followed by magenta as it pulled in ahead.

“Easy night of it then Gus?” the visitor asked in faraway tones through the tiny speaking holes in the window.  This was the Union’s day so fully two-thirds of its members were likely dreaming, drunken or both.

“I dunno mate I’m ‘avin’ an ‘ard time of it ‘ere.  Won’t get this finished tonight will I?  Look ‘ere - " and he recounted the blank areas on his forms in rapid-fire.

The driver whistled and grinned, his face framed by a greasy yellow hood.  “Better leave you to it then guv!” he announced before signalling farewell and climbing back into his cab.

At that moment the downpour grew, and the loud fascia of the receding vehicle washed into the ghoulish midnight textures in the window.

“Well thanks for all yer ‘elp” the watchman reproached, cradling his mug in both hands and easing back into his seat.  “Back around again,” he sighed, peering hawk-like at the paper.  “Five Across: Symphony”.