London Streets: Night
Micro stories inspired by photos from Terry Freedman -THREE MINUTES
Silk Street
She is alone in the office at 8 pm again. Everyone on Silk Street has gone home to their families except her.
Her boss is a lizard, always expecting her to work late, overwhelming her with impossible tasks, laying his reptilian hands on her.
She writes a note and places it on the center of his fine Philippine mahogany desk. She walks into the break room, picks up a sharp knife, and stabs the note firmly onto his desktop.
She takes her coat from the hook and locks the door behind her for the very last time.
Barley Lane
In the glow of sodium streetlights, Barley Lane lies deserted, except for one misdirected car recalculating … recalculating …
Every night he walks to this street, watching for her, restless and hungry. Tonight he hides himself behind the hedges.
The 271 hisses to a stop. She descends alone. As the bus pulls away, trailing grey exhaust, she knots her scarf a little tighter around her neck and begins her short walk home in the gloom. Suddenly, he jumps out of the shrubbery in front of her. She lets out a muffled shriek. “Hey! What the hell?”
“I’m sorry, honey, that was dumb. That was really dumb.”
“You idiot. You scared the hell out of me. Come on, let’s get home. It’s late.
Shoreditch Road
We were really into these two cute guys we met at a pub last night in Shoreditch.
We’d laughed and teased them under the stairway. We let them kiss us and touch us and stuff.
They promised they’d meet here again tonight, and we waited for them, but they never came. American girls. OMG! We can be so … delusional.
Ainsley Street
She called him to come pick her up at O’Malley’s again, saying she’d had too much to drink to walk home. He gets out of bed, throws on his coat, and drives into the rainy night.
It’s late, the street’s abandoned. He waits in the car for her to come out. How many more times will I forgive her, he asks himself. How many more chances does she need? When should I quit and just tell her to get out? The questions grieve him, body and soul.
The rain finally gives up. But he knows he never will.
Brick Lane
I finally found work. I start at the box factory tomorrow morning, nine o’clock.
Walking down Brick Lane tonight in the rain, I stopped for a bottle of champagne and a single yellow rose.
She’ll have to apologize now. I’m not hopeless, and I’m proving it to her.
Hanbury Street
The bookshop is closed, but still brightly lit. She pauses to look at the paperbacks in the window display. Among them are:
I, Alone
Lost Family
Warrior
Out of Sync
“The stories of my life,” she mumbles, as she walks away. And she wonders if she’ll ever heal from those things she does not talk about.
Shoreditch Road 2
She considers herself the new Basquiat — disruptive, misunderstood, bold visionary! She paints on brick and stone at night in furtive alleys and back streets where no one witnesses her at work.
They call her a vandal, a defacer, these people who don’t know much about art, but know what they don’t like.
Thank you Terry Freedman for letting me use your inspiring photos to create these little stories.
Terry writes Eclecticism: Reflections on literature, writing and life .
The stab of that knife is palpable!
Great stories, Sharron, and nice to see my casual photos used to such great effect. nThankk you. My favourite: the stabbed note. My least favourite: the jumping out from the bbushes. The bloke's a moron without a doubt.