It was the 1920's and the lines between reality and otherness were a helluva lot blurrier. Tonight we explore the lesser know, but no less important, Americana artefacts that this period brought with it into the harsh glaring lights of the 21's century.
McGallaster's Bar was as dingy as it was smokey, the ceiling lights flickered in the cigarette-based miasma that drifted around the room within a series of unfelt air currents. Any patron would tell you they haven't been allowed a smoke all night and they're going half crazy with their cravings yet the air still reeks of Murad's finest.
In several places the smoke drifted gently down the walls, almost forming figures that held their vaporous arms out to anyone who came near. Occasionally a more inebriated patron will swagger up with all the confidence of a pint too much and go to embrace what's not-quite-there. The smoke seems to suck them in and spit them out right beside the No Smoking signs, asking the patrons to light one up and appease their cravings.
Nobody's had the guts to try just yet but some day, a pint too many will make a fool try.
-- -- -- -- -- --
Al that could be heard from Mrs Sharma's School For The Secretarial was the harsh clacking of rigid nails against unforgiving plastic as the same paragraphs were typed out by over a hundred students who all wanted that ideal secretary-style life. They aspired to aid the greatest in the country, giving whatever they could to achieve this.
As a result, few were the same as they arrived but not noticeably so. Food preferences were the first to change, whatever kept them from the typewriter was deemed unnecessary and blacklisted in favour of things that could be prepared with one hand or even both feet (which soon became as dexterous as any hand could be).
The next to change was always nails, louder sounds kept the administrators at bay. Last time anyone tried to hold an hour of silent typing for memorial day, Mrs Sharma's lost an entire class. All that remained were bloody fingernails, the skin roughly attached underneath as though whatever had tried to pull them off had used something narrower and sharper to pry them away from their owner's hands.
Nowadays the world is too full of noise for the administrators to survive, they cower in abandoned office blocks and wait for it all to fall silent ad long, long last but it never will again.
-- -- -- -- -- --
McGallaster's Bar was as dingy as it was smokey, the ceiling lights flickered in the cigarette-based miasma that drifted around the room within a series of unfelt air currents. Any patron would tell you they haven't been allowed a smoke all night and they're going half crazy with their cravings yet the air still reeks of Murad's finest.
In several places the smoke drifted gently down the walls, almost forming figures that held their vaporous arms out to anyone who came near. Occasionally a more inebriated patron will swagger up with all the confidence of a pint too much and go to embrace what's not-quite-there. The smoke seems to suck them in and spit them out right beside the No Smoking signs, asking the patrons to light one up and appease their cravings.
Nobody's had the guts to try just yet but some day, a pint too many will make a fool try.
-- -- -- -- -- --
Al that could be heard from Mrs Sharma's School For The Secretarial was the harsh clacking of rigid nails against unforgiving plastic as the same paragraphs were typed out by over a hundred students who all wanted that ideal secretary-style life. They aspired to aid the greatest in the country, giving whatever they could to achieve this.
As a result, few were the same as they arrived but not noticeably so. Food preferences were the first to change, whatever kept them from the typewriter was deemed unnecessary and blacklisted in favour of things that could be prepared with one hand or even both feet (which soon became as dexterous as any hand could be).
The next to change was always nails, louder sounds kept the administrators at bay. Last time anyone tried to hold an hour of silent typing for memorial day, Mrs Sharma's lost an entire class. All that remained were bloody fingernails, the skin roughly attached underneath as though whatever had tried to pull them off had used something narrower and sharper to pry them away from their owner's hands.
Nowadays the world is too full of noise for the administrators to survive, they cower in abandoned office blocks and wait for it all to fall silent ad long, long last but it never will again.
-- -- -- -- -- --
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