I stood on the bridge at midnight as the clocks were striking the hour, the soup of the smog obscuring the views and blurring the city’s lights on all sides. With my scarf covering my mouth, my collar up and my hat and head down, I waited for my man.
In those days the centre of bridges were the only safe places to meet: pubs, streets, parks- all were full of ears and snarks, but bridges in the middle of night were known to be safe. Even with the smog close in, you could see far enough to see you were not being watched or, more importantly perhaps, overheard. Which was why this plan had been planned this way.
While waiting, I listened to the bells of various churches. To my ears they were out of sync, though I could not say if they truly were or not. As it was, and with each sounding its own tone, they made a strange tune that kept me distracted from my nerves and the cold.
He came from the south side, dressed just like me (just like everyone), his collar up, head down, scarf across the mouth to keep the smog out. Individuality had been voted out by voting the party in.
As he came out of the smog it seemed to be reluctant to let him go, strands of it looking like arms trying to hold him back and keep him hidden. I never liked these meetings- my nervousness and paranoia would give things a sinister edge.
We greeted one another briefly before getting on to business.
“You have yours?” he asked me, this man I had never met- would never meet again.
“Of course,” I replied and we both withdrew test tubes full of liquid: mine blue, his red. He took from a pocket an empty container, set it down on the pavement and emptied the contents of his tube into it. I did the same to create a green smoking concoction.
We stood and moved to the rail. “Do you think it will work?” he asked me.
“If it doesn't then we walk away and carry on until a new plan is produced. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”
He nodded and poured the mixture out. I never heard it hit the water, only saw it disappear.
Together we waited quietly, hopefully; until a green smog began to rise, pushing the regular smog in front of it.
“It seems to be working,” the man said.
“They will never see it coming,” I replied and we smiled at one another briefly before the gas reached us and put us to sleep.
I woke three days later in a hospital bed, the revolution having been peacefully secured, and soon returned to my normal life. There were no heroics or glorification of those involved, just restoration and continuation. We remembered and sought not to do it again.
I look out for him always, though, that man. I want to embrace him.
In those days the centre of bridges were the only safe places to meet: pubs, streets, parks- all were full of ears and snarks, but bridges in the middle of night were known to be safe. Even with the smog close in, you could see far enough to see you were not being watched or, more importantly perhaps, overheard. Which was why this plan had been planned this way.
While waiting, I listened to the bells of various churches. To my ears they were out of sync, though I could not say if they truly were or not. As it was, and with each sounding its own tone, they made a strange tune that kept me distracted from my nerves and the cold.
He came from the south side, dressed just like me (just like everyone), his collar up, head down, scarf across the mouth to keep the smog out. Individuality had been voted out by voting the party in.
As he came out of the smog it seemed to be reluctant to let him go, strands of it looking like arms trying to hold him back and keep him hidden. I never liked these meetings- my nervousness and paranoia would give things a sinister edge.
We greeted one another briefly before getting on to business.
“You have yours?” he asked me, this man I had never met- would never meet again.
“Of course,” I replied and we both withdrew test tubes full of liquid: mine blue, his red. He took from a pocket an empty container, set it down on the pavement and emptied the contents of his tube into it. I did the same to create a green smoking concoction.
We stood and moved to the rail. “Do you think it will work?” he asked me.
“If it doesn't then we walk away and carry on until a new plan is produced. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”
He nodded and poured the mixture out. I never heard it hit the water, only saw it disappear.
Together we waited quietly, hopefully; until a green smog began to rise, pushing the regular smog in front of it.
“It seems to be working,” the man said.
“They will never see it coming,” I replied and we smiled at one another briefly before the gas reached us and put us to sleep.
*
I woke three days later in a hospital bed, the revolution having been peacefully secured, and soon returned to my normal life. There were no heroics or glorification of those involved, just restoration and continuation. We remembered and sought not to do it again.
I look out for him always, though, that man. I want to embrace him.
Written for the Light and Shade Challenge from the written prompt, from Longfellow's The Bridge, I stood on the bridge at midnight,/As the clocks were striking the hour
That is such a positive story. I love the idea of the dangers of meeting, and the revolution being so calm. Lyssa M x
ReplyDeleteFascinating story - and a nice quiet revolution overturning a suitably shady dystopia. Great work.
ReplyDeleteGreat read. Loved the phrase - 'In those days the centre of bridges were the only safe places to meet'.
ReplyDeleteThis was a great story. Very cool how a resolution was found as they slept and peace reigned when they finally woke.
ReplyDeleteThis was a well written narrative, filled with atmosphere, imagination and intrigue
ReplyDeleteI loved how the plot is enveloped in mystery... gives an errie feeling. Beautifully penned.
ReplyDelete