A Walk Home; Through Kings Cross

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
My walk home.

Submitted: November 01, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 01, 2011



The Platform

The grating wheezes open and the stampede begins. A black and blue sea of snipping crows and cackling miner-birds rushing to explode at the single narrow exit perched in the sky. Eager swarms attack with unrealistic urgency and in a burst of feathers, spill over a shadowy edge not five metres from the exit. Those with more patience form a snake, writhing and wriggling vigorously into the light, and the tail whips against the barriers before following suit.

The Ticket-Gate

As the snake passes up the tunnel it separates into two beasts. The one on the left settles and presses it's side up against the railing, enjoying the slow swishing movement of being dragged upward. The other beast is not so kind, it continues it's vicious writhing up the tunnel, crashing against the railing and the gentle snake to it's left, it leaves a trail of dirty black feathers dancing in the air between the stairs and the ceiling. The feathers continue back down to the platform and a small flag wielding frog uses an umbrella to shield himself from their sharp ends. The head of the vicious snake reaches the concourse and with a frantic cackle, liquifies itself to stream through the waiting jaws. Seven in all, they form the only possible exit and chomp contemptuously at any new entrant. The liquified mass is much experienced with- and normalised to- the snapping jaws and passes through much like a liquid is expected to. The gentle snake isn't so lucky. Upon the concourse, it also deliquesces but hits the row of foaming jaws like an ocean against concrete and laps around the small area atop the escalators. The constituents of the gentle snake wash carefully through the violent gates with painstaking assidous-y, but even that is not enough and some are caught by jeering jaws that nab at flesh but are unable to swallow and staved frogs use their implements to remove the constituent's remains from the teeth. Through the barrier, grey wolves leer at the proceedings, attune to any indecency. If even a scent is considered, a single lithe male steps into the stream and catches the offendant by the neck, wringing it backward and fore- before dragging it ashore.

The Station

The antechamber is white light. Yellow beached oasis' line one side, tinged blue, they are only visible for the way they seem to absorb the brightness around them. Exotic small animals dance and wave from the barrier of palm trees and motion at the coconuts and other wares they pedal. The former snakes run along the edge of the oasis' and gradually, larger animals rise out of the steady flow. Some slow down and move out of the stream, and others push forward violently, making a clear path through the general throng. A hatted badger moving into the tunnel holds a briefcase to his breast and uses his other hand stuck out in front of him to guide a path, his khaki overcoat is pressed hard against himself and his shoulders are constantly hit upon. He braces forward and continues into the chomping lips, obviously a seasoned adventurer. Portions of a second after the badger has disappeared, a weasel scurries through the same gap, twisting it's lithe body to avoid the closing. The wolves note the weasel and two bound off in chase, whining and barking with the thrill, their silk-coats move like smoke through the waters. A meek rodent, perhaps a relative of the Muridae family, licks his paws while distributing pictures written in the words of someone else. He is merely a carrier. They describe the antics of popular females and deaths by violence in near-by countries. They also popularise items beyond the attainment of most. The pictures are transported city-wide in the evening and by night coat the parks and stations in dirty-white blankets that flap and whisper their evil to the streets. The streets, with bloody teeth gnashing in fresh meat, rarely listen.

The Station-Exit

Another rising tunnel meets the snakes and assorted animalia. More brightly lit, and virile, the force of the tunnel speeds upward enough to whip loose hairs round. Over the crest, a great white cloud proclaims entertainment and soft sleeping materials for meagre pricings, with an insinuation of conviviality. The cloud settles over a chaotic sidewalk painting, moving and vicious. The colours sprint left and right and occasionally collide into diaphanous rainbows that mists over the scene but quickly disperse. Moving closer to the painting allows it to swallow all perspective. Suddenly, the warm walls and soft cloud become ash grey and each step falls on the hardest of metals. A flock of mangy seagulls squawk and pout their chests, they nap at stray purses and whine for copper. There is one, dark-grey, with a missing leg and injured wing. It bays horribly from it's defeated position on the asphalt, craving medicines judged of more worth than it's life. When it becomes too weak, when it's squawking has gone quiet, the other seagulls will move in and devour it alive. They know the time is coming; so they stay close, and endeavour to intercept any stuffs intended for the limb-deprived animal, determined to quicken it's end.

The Strip

Yellow flashing behind bad fish. Yellow flashing behind screeching ferrets. A constant odour of bad fish. The slender, weasel-like creatures do all but physically crawl over, they screech, chant, bark and motion to their hideouts, dark narrow entrances into worn looking tree trunks. In the frames of some are tattered old rabbits, ears pinned with holes and fraying coats, they strut against the darkness; before the strip, with vacant eyes. The ferrets regard them carelessly and sometimes bite them for play, keeping them in line. Both animals make high-pitched cries when a biting occurs. The floor is a waste smorgasbord; the by-products of the various creatures, faecal and otherwise, put a tack and unsticking noise with every footfall and rise. More seagulls lie in pathetic piles, their beaks train on the noise and follow, vocalising a need of charity. Younger rats and mice scurry between the sick gulls and other birds, nipping at their dead limbs and taking any gathered foods. They chatter and laugh eating a pigeon's foot. The pigeon cries. The mice laugh louder. The pigeon is too weak now to stop the assault, it lowers it head back to the ground and sings a long, drawn out resignation, it's eyes closing.

My Avenue

The trees petter out into an open gully with a river on one side. It gurgles playfully in harmony with the low hum of communication. Varying species lap at the water's edge, some with their feet submerged. Overhanging all are great oaks, more majestic than and physically dwarfing the Strip's trees, they bestow an undeserved serenity on the clearing and slow down an otherwise frantic pace. A short ways into the gully is a large brown elm indistinguishable from those around it. And that elm is mine.

© Copyright 2018 Davidgfrancis. All rights reserved.

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