Hey, thanks for the reviews. I only hope I can keep up the same kind of
style and quality of story all the way through! : p
Bit of a dark and moody chapter now, but I assure you it won't stay like
this and besides it's quite short!.........
John Gibson was stressed. His City Service uniform was caked in dirt and mud smeared his face. The luminous yellow overall top he wore was faded and was more so lime green in shade. His dark brown hair was swepted back with a greasy shine to it. He was down on his luck, down in a rut and down on the streets sweeping the curbs. He hated his job. Hated his life. Hated EVERYTHING! His life had been a never-ending struggle. He had been deserted when he was fifteen by his uncaring foster parents. They had split up due to them both having affairs. He had come home one day to find a note:
"Fend for yourself."
It made him wish for his real parents but he knew nothing of them. It made him so angry and ready to explode in rage. But somehow. somehow he managed to keep it in. How could his foster parents have done this to him? At that time he thought it was his fault. It had made him plunge into a world filled with self-pity and not giving a damn. He moved into another foster home and finished school when he was eighteen. He then skipped around on a couple of jobs for a few years just getting by and occasionally not getting by. Sometimes he was on the streets. At least the job he had now kept him going. Street Sweeper. It sucked but someone had to do it, he thought to himself. But why him? He felt a burning yearn inside of him that made him think he could achieve much more. He couldn't quite pinpoint it, how or what. All he knew was that he felt he had the potential for something big. It was approaching 5pm and traffic in New York was beginning to pick up, making John's job a nightmare. Anger swelled inside of him but somehow he still managed to keep it locked up inside of him. Suddenly a car drove quite speedily by him went straight in to his cleaning trolley as it parked alongside the curb. John sighed with controlled anger. Brilliant, he said quietly. He went to pick it up when the driver of the car stepped out. He wore a black suit with purple t-shirt and black tie. A high rise lawyer or businessman he guessed.
"What the hell do you call this?" bellowed the suited man who stood in a confrontational stance.
"Unsafe driving?" replied John, taking a not so smart move to be cheeky.
"I call it 'Damage to my car!" and with that the suited man shoved John towards his car to see the 'damage'. There was none.
"I don't see anything and besides, what about my trolley?" He gestured over to it. It was tipped on its side and one of the wheels was broken.
"That means nothing to me you low-life scum," he retorted back. He began to walk away to wherever he had to go. As he did so, he gave John some final words of warning.
" Your job will be gone by tomorrow, I assure you of that!"
John turned back to his crippled trolley and looked at the dishevelled broom in his hands. He wouldn't, would he? He shrugged it off; feeling self pity taking over again as his pent up anger slowly subsided.
John Gibson was stressed. His City Service uniform was caked in dirt and mud smeared his face. The luminous yellow overall top he wore was faded and was more so lime green in shade. His dark brown hair was swepted back with a greasy shine to it. He was down on his luck, down in a rut and down on the streets sweeping the curbs. He hated his job. Hated his life. Hated EVERYTHING! His life had been a never-ending struggle. He had been deserted when he was fifteen by his uncaring foster parents. They had split up due to them both having affairs. He had come home one day to find a note:
"Fend for yourself."
It made him wish for his real parents but he knew nothing of them. It made him so angry and ready to explode in rage. But somehow. somehow he managed to keep it in. How could his foster parents have done this to him? At that time he thought it was his fault. It had made him plunge into a world filled with self-pity and not giving a damn. He moved into another foster home and finished school when he was eighteen. He then skipped around on a couple of jobs for a few years just getting by and occasionally not getting by. Sometimes he was on the streets. At least the job he had now kept him going. Street Sweeper. It sucked but someone had to do it, he thought to himself. But why him? He felt a burning yearn inside of him that made him think he could achieve much more. He couldn't quite pinpoint it, how or what. All he knew was that he felt he had the potential for something big. It was approaching 5pm and traffic in New York was beginning to pick up, making John's job a nightmare. Anger swelled inside of him but somehow he still managed to keep it locked up inside of him. Suddenly a car drove quite speedily by him went straight in to his cleaning trolley as it parked alongside the curb. John sighed with controlled anger. Brilliant, he said quietly. He went to pick it up when the driver of the car stepped out. He wore a black suit with purple t-shirt and black tie. A high rise lawyer or businessman he guessed.
"What the hell do you call this?" bellowed the suited man who stood in a confrontational stance.
"Unsafe driving?" replied John, taking a not so smart move to be cheeky.
"I call it 'Damage to my car!" and with that the suited man shoved John towards his car to see the 'damage'. There was none.
"I don't see anything and besides, what about my trolley?" He gestured over to it. It was tipped on its side and one of the wheels was broken.
"That means nothing to me you low-life scum," he retorted back. He began to walk away to wherever he had to go. As he did so, he gave John some final words of warning.
" Your job will be gone by tomorrow, I assure you of that!"
John turned back to his crippled trolley and looked at the dishevelled broom in his hands. He wouldn't, would he? He shrugged it off; feeling self pity taking over again as his pent up anger slowly subsided.