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He sat in the traffic patiently, his instinct cowed, his spirit broken.
Charles reflected on his glory days, as he so often did, and momentarily tasting his old fire, scrutinised what he had become. The muted colours of his business suit said it all.
He would placidly follow the other cars in their primitive metal herd - once he'd have forced his way through, risen to the top - until he got to his office. He'd make small talk with Peter: the awful weather, football, traffic. He'd look at Peter's bright novelty tie with its cartoon character design or Manchester United logo and wonder of the two of them who was weakest. This man whose spirit had never been broken - it had never been strong enough to clash with society, to be tested or overcome - this man fit in the modern world. Charles belonged to a distant world now consigned to history.
How did this happen? Was it his wife, when she'd finally won out in her quest to domesticate her man, to neuter him?
No. She was only a sympton of the world that had tamed him.
Besides, he couldn't build any feeling of resentment. That Charles was gone now. The final victory, he mused, his spirit was too weak now even to object to its oppression.
But there was still one last spark in there somewhere. He'd go out with one final stand...
Charles reflected on his glory days, as he so often did, and momentarily tasting his old fire, scrutinised what he had become. The muted colours of his business suit said it all.
He would placidly follow the other cars in their primitive metal herd - once he'd have forced his way through, risen to the top - until he got to his office. He'd make small talk with Peter: the awful weather, football, traffic. He'd look at Peter's bright novelty tie with its cartoon character design or Manchester United logo and wonder of the two of them who was weakest. This man whose spirit had never been broken - it had never been strong enough to clash with society, to be tested or overcome - this man fit in the modern world. Charles belonged to a distant world now consigned to history.
How did this happen? Was it his wife, when she'd finally won out in her quest to domesticate her man, to neuter him?
No. She was only a sympton of the world that had tamed him.
Besides, he couldn't build any feeling of resentment. That Charles was gone now. The final victory, he mused, his spirit was too weak now even to object to its oppression.
But there was still one last spark in there somewhere. He'd go out with one final stand...
The idea of a broken man patiently wallowing in traffic is bit of a weak start. Is he patient, or merely resigned - brow-beaten into accepting the dreary insignificance of the status quo?
Heh, I ran out of steam.
Stuff to write seems to come in short bursts. I guess a large part of the art of writing is to spin a brief idea into a longer piece.
Stuff to write seems to come in short bursts. I guess a large part of the art of writing is to spin a brief idea into a longer piece.
Nice.
Should be longer though, I was just getting in to it!
Should be longer though, I was just getting in to it!
He sat in the traffic patiently, his instinct cowed, his spirit broken.
Charles reflected on his glory days, as he so often did, and momentarily tasting his old fire, scrutinised what he had become. The muted colours of his business suit said it all.
He would placidly follow the other cars in their primitive metal herd - once he'd have forced his way through, risen to the top - until he got to his office. He'd make small talk with Peter: the awful weather, football, traffic. He'd look at Peter's bright novelty tie with its cartoon character design or Manchester United logo and wonder of the two of them who was weakest. This man whose spirit had never been broken - it had never been strong enough to clash with society, to be tested or overcome - this man fit in the modern world. Charles belonged to a distant world now consigned to history.
How did this happen? Was it his wife, when she'd finally won out in her quest to domesticate her man, to neuter him?
No. She was only a sympton of the world that had tamed him.
Besides, he couldn't build any feeling of resentment. That Charles was gone now. The final victory, he mused, his spirit was too weak now even to object to its oppression.
But there was still one last spark in there somewhere. He'd go out with one final stand...
Charles reflected on his glory days, as he so often did, and momentarily tasting his old fire, scrutinised what he had become. The muted colours of his business suit said it all.
He would placidly follow the other cars in their primitive metal herd - once he'd have forced his way through, risen to the top - until he got to his office. He'd make small talk with Peter: the awful weather, football, traffic. He'd look at Peter's bright novelty tie with its cartoon character design or Manchester United logo and wonder of the two of them who was weakest. This man whose spirit had never been broken - it had never been strong enough to clash with society, to be tested or overcome - this man fit in the modern world. Charles belonged to a distant world now consigned to history.
How did this happen? Was it his wife, when she'd finally won out in her quest to domesticate her man, to neuter him?
No. She was only a sympton of the world that had tamed him.
Besides, he couldn't build any feeling of resentment. That Charles was gone now. The final victory, he mused, his spirit was too weak now even to object to its oppression.
But there was still one last spark in there somewhere. He'd go out with one final stand...