This text have a swedish title because it's a kind of tribute to a band I really like, but couldn't translate right. Can anyone help me please?
Suitcases make a weird sound when they come close to legs.
A fast look on the watch. Five minutes to go. Making it, accurate.
It's good work. We collects stuff to archives, and re-writes documents.
If we are asked, we say we like it here. Besides that, we are silent. If we co-operate, we only use hand-signs.
Coffebreak. Twice a day. Quiet. Nervous smiles over watered coffee.
If we speak, it's about what's in our cups. It's best at Monday and Thursday.
What makes most sound on the office is the camera watching over us. The camera was put there because there was a need to know where we were at all time. We also got microchips placed in our arms. If you don't work fast enough, it sends a signal to the boss. The one who get's the most signals one day, have to stay behind after work and clean the toilets.
There is no windows in the office, and all the furniture is grey. The lights are always low. There are no color at any place. We are also grey, because we can't see the sun. We come in the morning shadows, and leaves when darkness are all over the city.
Even our uniforms are grey. We doesn't have name-signs, but number on the uniforms back. Today it was number 9 who had to wash the toilets. We sets the computers on their place, and lock up the archives. The sound of the suitcases being locked, and we starts walking down the stairs.
Out on the street. A grey company gets jealous looks from streetsleepers. We goes all the way home too the great grey flathouse. Here we have one flat each, and we can decorate them in which color we like. In contrast to other *lower* flathouses.
I goes into my apartment, stands a couple of seconds totally puzzled, straight on the floor. Then I lay down on my bed. Break down in a total disaster of crying, weeping and blackouts. And fell asleep on my bed, with all my clothes on.
Short story by barbeina
Read 974 times
Written on 2006-05-02 at 20:59
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Staten och Kapitalet
We were getting close to the office. Our steps had a smell of rush.Suitcases make a weird sound when they come close to legs.
A fast look on the watch. Five minutes to go. Making it, accurate.
It's good work. We collects stuff to archives, and re-writes documents.
If we are asked, we say we like it here. Besides that, we are silent. If we co-operate, we only use hand-signs.
Coffebreak. Twice a day. Quiet. Nervous smiles over watered coffee.
If we speak, it's about what's in our cups. It's best at Monday and Thursday.
What makes most sound on the office is the camera watching over us. The camera was put there because there was a need to know where we were at all time. We also got microchips placed in our arms. If you don't work fast enough, it sends a signal to the boss. The one who get's the most signals one day, have to stay behind after work and clean the toilets.
There is no windows in the office, and all the furniture is grey. The lights are always low. There are no color at any place. We are also grey, because we can't see the sun. We come in the morning shadows, and leaves when darkness are all over the city.
Even our uniforms are grey. We doesn't have name-signs, but number on the uniforms back. Today it was number 9 who had to wash the toilets. We sets the computers on their place, and lock up the archives. The sound of the suitcases being locked, and we starts walking down the stairs.
Out on the street. A grey company gets jealous looks from streetsleepers. We goes all the way home too the great grey flathouse. Here we have one flat each, and we can decorate them in which color we like. In contrast to other *lower* flathouses.
I goes into my apartment, stands a couple of seconds totally puzzled, straight on the floor. Then I lay down on my bed. Break down in a total disaster of crying, weeping and blackouts. And fell asleep on my bed, with all my clothes on.
Short story by barbeina
Read 974 times
Written on 2006-05-02 at 20:59
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text|
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