An Old Short story (Passing Strangers)

I'll start this blog off by importing some of my facebook notes to get me started. This is a short short story i wrote several months ago. Enjoy.

Passing Strangers (Copyright 2008)

By Benjamin C. Atwell


Glazed eyes and blank faces weave seamlessly into the background of mundane living down the corridors of a modern city. Men and woman intent upon nothing but not being where they were. Swirling and swerving, their multifarious jackets, skirts, and suits blur to a muddy rainbow in pale morning sun.
Among the crowd a lone face turns toward the sun, taking some small comfort from its mottled rays. Others look up dumbly, wondering briefly if a faster path has been spotted above them. Claire turns back from that fleeting warmth, straightens on a blank stare, and allows her self to be herded by the indifferent throng. Losing interest, the others grumble and continue on their way.
Everyday she must pass thousands of people. With neither a nod nor a spark of life glinting from the lidless eyes of a modern world, she is daily swept up in the meaningless meanderings of a busy life. The towering indifference of the city plods slowly past, its silvered eyes gazing blankly within, shoving the world starkly back upon itself.
Claire weaves among the throbbing masses with the grace of a dancer, the first of many deferrals in her short life. She heads down Cypress Boulevard, mechanical in her precisely timed turning. Keeping perfectly poised she powers down the weathered walk, oblivious to the gnarled hand of a beggar reaching upward toward her, clambering skyward for aid. As she passes the hand slowly retracts, once again bereft of charity.
Her blank gaze is caught by a long, jagged crack in the pavement beneath her travel worn heels. She follows its crooked contours down the length of the sidewalk. Pursing with heightened interest this abstract aspect of an otherwise inane vessel, she becomes less sure of her position, clipping several passing suits. The ostentatious aperture in the pavement slowly grows as it is shadowed.
Leaping back with fright Claire finds her self upon the brink of a gaping maw in the earth. It seems to sigh, as if relieved it was not forced to stomach an unwelcome morsel. Flanked by construction crews and encircled by caution tape, she seemed to have managed to stumble upon the sole opening. Reaching down toward some unknown destination, the pit swirled downward into fading darkness. It's purpose was not clear to Claire, but she shrugged it off as a mark of progress. Just another hole to plant next years office in.
Taking a moment to compose herself, she takes a couple more cautionary steps backward, bumping into a construction worker. The man grunts, glares at her, and continues on his way. As he walks away her eyes follow his steady, determined gait. He readjusts his reflective vest and fades indignantly from sight behind a plume of dust, thrown up by the yellow earth movers.
An angry driver jolts her back to reality as he blares his horn at a passing car. It's polished metal reflects briefly the blurred image of a woman in a black overcoat, with just a hint of gray skirt showing from below its encompassing warmth. Shimmering slightly, the reflection traces the length of the vehicle's chrome trim, and vanishes. Glancing at her watch, Claire springs once more into motion, skirting the fissure, and she reclaims her place on the path.
She blends back into the forward minded masses, carving a swath between executives, secretaries, even a harassed-looking mailman. Rounding a corner, she emerges on 12th street, once more confident in her purpose. The cracks and pits in the sidewalk sink back into their common gray blur, smoothed by a million heavy and hurried steps.
Powering swiftly down the street, Claire brushes rebellious strands of sandy brown hair from her face. The wind has started to pick up, giving flight to unwary bits of litter, and discarded papers. The abandoned newsprint drifts lazily about the traffic, occasionally jostled by an eddy created by a passing car. Pigeons, startled by the sudden breeze takeoff, stumbling nosily through the air. Claire once again checks her watch, time was short, as always.
In her haste she steps into a lone puddle, still clinging to the memory of a passed storm. She pauses, assessing the damage. Shimmering slightly, her eyes show brightly in the reflection, brown flecked with green, full of scrutiny and concern. From the pool, they gaze once more toward the sky. Claire groans and shakes her heel clad foot, attempting to free it from the unwelcome water. The shimmering surface shatters into a cascade of ripples as droplets free themselves from the unwelcome intruder. There mutual indignation is wasted however, as Claire is already back on her way, staining the side walk with her sodden steps. As her shoes dry the marks fade, silently disappearing in her wake.
Claire can see her building now, sparkling dully in the morning sunlight. It stands between smaller structures, it is flanked by a neat hedgerow, a path leading directly to the perfect glass doors, polished so wonderfully they were opaque with reflection. Towering forty-eight stories of smooth tan stone, its black mirrored windows blazing with the brilliant flame of a cold dawn, the building inspires a sense of purposeful determination and steadfast work ethic.
Claire gazes at it from across the street, taking in the familiar and comforting contours of its facade. Stolid executives make there way past hurried businessmen, filing in an orderly rush through gates, diligently prepared for the practiced routine of this new day. She sighs, and steps out onto the street.
A lone sparrow atop a lamp post watches her movements with curiosity. Claire has remember the time and hastens across the street. The brown speckled bird tilts its head to one side, shifting restlessly on its perch. Claire is running across the lanes now. The tiny sparrow withdraws its gaze and returns it to the sky, tracing the memories of clouds and their blue wake. It blinks, and leaps from the lamppost, startled, despite the absence of wind. Claire slips.
The world inverts as she finds herself once more facing the comforting warmth of the mottled sunlight. Squinting painfully into the harsh light, she watches a small bird reclaim the blue pathway, oblivious to the world below. Morning traffic is on its way, focused in its routine. Black tires roll incessantly onward across the slick, gray pavement. Claire raises her hand, clambering skyward for aid.
A shadow paints her figure in fleeting warmth. Grasping her hand, its origin lifts Claire to her feet and pushes her to the safety of the opposite sidewalk. Claire stumbles, shivers, and glances over her shoulder. The shadow fades back into the interminable brown of the hurried masses.
Claire gazes at her hand, once again empty. She turns once more toward the sky, and smiles.