YD6~06 Trade Show: the Start-up’s Hope
Synopsis: Flash Memoir: Vitrine of Consciousness.
I've been quoted as, "John le Carré mystery style of writing," But true to my life experiences, I feel the need to orientate the reader a bit, explaining. Aetheria's personification of consciousness' 10-year saga, until birthing – "Sunshine," plus two years. Resuscitated at nine-month intervals, then again in the Intensive Care Unit, the sudden ill heath vanished – My memoirs recorded because of proper and psychic experiences starting as a three-month-old newborn, when I was taught to write my first words, I wished to understand the astonishing mind interface with the brain, as I took notes.
Subscribe + Comment = Editor, or, what age group of the reader, the gender, in a sentence your opinion. PS: Considering the writer’s profile, Thank You!
Vitrine of Consciousness: Chapter 6
Subscribe + Comment = Editor, or, I'd like to know who reads my work: age group, gender, and your opinion in a sentence.
In a restless jump to my feet, I slip on a shirt and pants, stepping into shoes, toward the door, to crank the door lever pull and clear the passageway. Around the corner I descend the dogleg stairway, eyesight stumble to the east wing door. Crank the lever at my pace, swing the door. I crossed the television room to the kitchen, greeted the couple, Martin in the kitchen with Jessica, and their little boy at the kitchen table. From the offside percolator, I grab the coffee jug, pour myself a cup of coffee, exchanged a few greeting words while concerned about my endeavor. I excused a table’s dished eggs, tracking back to the hallway, stepping offside in the west wing. I head toward the bright daylight to my sunken office. Approaching the window grid to the mowed grass, pose my cup on the sill, and turned around, pace to face the flank of the room gleaming plastic bundled books, as delivery by the printer.
Uncomfortable at proceeding with my endeavor, I heave a thick, clear plastic wrapped bundle of booklets from the stacked up corner. Embraced the bundle, step away up the two elongated slate treads, shun cross the bare slated floor kink my way offside to the hallway, unlatching the door. I step across the porch to sunlight. On the brick paved driveway apron, shifted the bundle of books to my left thigh, picked the trunk lock, tweaked the key, lifting the lid to pose in the shadowy trunk. The plentiful space spare, allot my niece, Tania, her bundle. I returned inside the house to fetch another bundle of books - smack - the trunk lid closed on the booklet’s without other perspective. I head back to my office. ‘_Can’t let coffee go to waste!_’ drink the cold coffee, looped through the kitchen, now deserted. I pose the cup on the sink, and head on a journey to merit the rewards of my venture, apart from clients’ dedicated line to my desk, enlightening the route to home renovation.
At a glance at my gold-plated wristwatch’s white crystal and a golden hour marker to spare, appeasing my steps away from the trunk. I picked the lock listening to the sight of the unlocking doors, to step inside, tweak the ignition key, the six pistons’ to the engine’s heavy breath, before awaking a purr. Slew a glance exercise my body’s wringing. The porch slips upfront, to the west wing and onto the garage doors to a hold. I uncoil in my seat, to toggle gears into drive, the gateway to sight, onto easing past veering on the dirt Roseway, riding the carriage to my destiny. Accentuated at a slow pace, the dirt street intersects Fairway. the car rocks through the gutter, leading to the asphalt, mapping in mind to fetch Tania and Paul.
I’m riding through mottled cool shades, the eucalyptus’ suburban remnant shed, and engaged on naked Old Pretoria Road. I’m cruising through the shadows of the Buccleuch interchange overpass, the east-western highway. For my delight, the right’s grassland returning wild grown eucalyptus to the wayside’s heavy trunks, joined by the left, to an acute reminiscence fee-wheeling the overseeing valley. In the tracks of the Voortrekkers’ ox wagons’ course, sweeping the hillsides across the Jukskei River’s weir. Lost in the countryside, another period higher stone-sculptured bridge, to slog pedaling the rolling siding from the deep valley. The Halfway House horses outpost, messengers’ horse changes remnants to a short-lived steep eased ledge. After a break, the straggling eucalyptus from the treacherous grassland’s wave, the town’s retailers shifted to the successive plateau. Herds of eucalyptuses returned wayside to the parent trees, to the rollover hill crest, on a clear day, to sight Pretoria’s Voortrekker monument. ‘/Yesterday, when I was young / The taste of life was sweet like rain upon my tongue / I teased at life as if it were a foolish game. . ./’
Oblivious to the sweat dried on my skin, as the Mercedes hood’s circled star’s 3 points sweeps to the side street, under the asphalt, to my regret the dirt road — Uncle Beux and Aunt Carla’s house and poultry shed on the small agricultural holdings. Which vanished, ghosting amid the surreal. The mountain sliced spearheading the highway, toward the Hillbrow Television Tower. the flare’s lanes through the intersection herd abundant automakers’ thriving showrooms. Tapered upfront, eager to hold on to my fourteenish’s driving the farm’s Volkswagen panel van, through grasslands sprinkled by small holdings fetching eggs to bringing home for distribution.
Up comes Ilona’s property to sight, asphalt paved raised from the bed of the ancient dirt road I’ve learned to know through grasslands, and short of spotted the next door thatched roof house to plum hue brick gatepost. I steered the Mercedes coasting down the steep ramp toward leading tracks through the grassland, hissing the undercarriage, approaching the white brick gable wall to the saddled tiled roof running further toward the rear. I turned to the driveway dirt apron to halt short of the juxtaposed triple carport, gazing through cottage windows into the interior’s shadows for figures’ motion. When a figure in the distant porch’s shadows surges, Tania's peppy gait approaching under the tiled eave, her brother Paul, lagging in their approach under the vine’s foliage laden wooden pergola. She turns at the gum pole railing to the terrace, descends into sunlight, to the crazy-slate front yard path to round the car. The door swings. Tania steps inside, closing the door, while Paul steps in behind his sister in an exchange of brief greetings.
With the closing door, I gazed past Paul, reversing the car to the extended driveway apron to halt, toggle the gears to drive. We crawl away, rotating to face the beaten tracks, cutting the golden savanna property in halves. The undercarriage hiss cruising, approaching pillar’s ramped up gateway, turning into the street. In silence, accelerating along the low wire meshed fence, continuant of my earlier course. Around the block to a small holding, shielded hedgerow tight knitted and high foliage swells. Opposing a barbed wire fence to grassland, we pulled up at the junction — Unimaginable Mrs. Noble, while a post office clerk, also a storekeeper, to the adjacent whitewashed brick shacks. From a Boer storekeeper to an Indian family. An absent mechanic and pump attendant, at a pair of gas pumps on a concrete, crumbling driveway. in front of a workshop’s somber mucky thick dust window panes — Aberrant, the alternation didn’t elicit a wink from either sibling, as a translucent red and white iconic Spar spur dominates Crowthorne’s corner.
I’m steering the Mercedes turned from the Stop sign, the broadened country road — so acute morphed during years, since Igor and I cycled at first light, the first hillside wave, me to a construction site, he to school, in Pretoria. At dusk, the last leg home — White lane marking doubled, crawl the corner. Facing the roadway, swag across the culvert, propelled on our bikes toward the road fork. Freewheeled through the bend at the crotch of a triangulated grass traffic island. Beyond the corner house’s orchard, the gritty driveway apron welcomed us home. To cross the clanging cattle guard, to honoring rows of wide skirted conifers, lining the peaches and plumes orchards. Clearing the squatted white plastered walls capped by the orange ridges and valleys tiled roof, to a sweep driveway broadening to end to the double garage.
Tania and Paul didn’t spare a squint passing the driveway to the neglected house on plot 8 in Kyalami, siblings’ curiosity of parents’ teen exhausted. as I’m driving my Mercedes sitting back, my heart crying the arid property, to gaze at the leading Bryanston road with a bird’s-eye view toward the converging Western Bypass highway. We passed the Leeuwkop Prison gates; the roadway ditching the steep sidings across the Jukskei River to raise and crest. Across the intersection, to the Fourways hillside ledge to a workshop filling station outpost, the road rises farther. deviated since cycling on the road, threads our way into the subway, and out crest where the Bryanston suburbs and Randburg meet at either side of the roadway, where we’ll meet the access ramps to the Western Bypass highway.
When we pulled up, into the Rand Easter Trade Show’s gateway, the parking lot asphalt with its making lay bare but a few cars, and stalled near the entrance, to a simultaneous opening of doors, to rise tall by the car - smack, smack, smack - with Tania and Paul, congregating at the Mercedes’ trunk. I raised the lid hand duck, ripping the plastic wrap, handing back to Tania and Paul a stack of ten booklets. I lowered the trunk led, to catch up with the distancing siblings, for the doorway. It dawns on me, privilege by the customer attendant’s words, left me weird without an official document. We crossed the threshold, to a corner booth’s elegant and youthful men and women on standby at the crotch of branching aisles. We hesitated. Tania nods right and heads off with Paul. I dare ease from an invisible state, step deeper in a channel margin by rows of booths. Without a niche to stand exposed, I’m turning shoulders from the men and women attendants to trade booths, my back to the diving partition nib. Ignored by the attendants, I eased, facing the entrance’s framing a penetrating glow.
From the bright light, shadows arise, morphing to silhouettes. My eyesight on a steeplechase of approaching figures colors clothing. I’m stepping away from the edge. In the open, facing one after the other man, I trot with a leading booklet, saying. “All you need to know about home improvement — Four Rand fifty.” White people trickle the passageway, each person ditching eyes, tears, a timid rejection, shunt off course. A black man walks up, while repeating my slogan. The man’s hand digs into his back pocket. He returns a fiver, in exchange for a booklet.
My fingers fumble my hip pocket to say, “_’Holly sh-t_’ — I have no change!”
The black man says. “Keep it.” Sauntering away.
I run woozy eyesight, guilt stricken, after the black man. ‘_Can’t we make some arrangement? — That’s a folly_’. My heart sinks over the stupidity, returning to grip a crowd streaming out the glowing sunlight, a few people splashing curious eyes on the bright cover, but the flow shaping me, drudging a handout, I step away into the upcoming crowds, in unison with Tania, coming from the blind corner, drained eyes, Paul trailing her. We turned away through a crowd of figures breaching light, we emerged to a glittering parking lot.
In harmony, we paced up to the orange Mercedes. Approaching the trunk, motioned to relieve Tania and Paul’s hands from the stacked books, returning mine in the trunk, feeling. ‘_This is not the place to distribute booklets_.’ Tania and Paul amble around the rear fender as I slam the trunk lid close, heading toward the other flank. The sighs pop up the door sill buttons, in unison ease to our seats. As I’m pulling my doors behind, with a glance at Tania, her gaze expressed my thought. ‘_Where to now_’ To say. “Let’s call it a day.” I tweak the ignition key, pulling away toward the gateway, ashamed for them believing in my enterprise.
Comments
Post a Comment