Monday, April 26, 2010

116. The life of Riley?

The setting sun ricocheted briefly from the edge of the sandstone blocks of the southern pylon, shadow encasing Sydney in an evening cloak of scattered diamonds on midnight blue.

Snaking lines of silver carriages rattle to the north crowded with satisfied commuters returning to their cosy cottages on the leafy north shore. An army of private vehicles progresses southwards into the city with an evening crowd eager to be at their mid-town clubs and theatres.

A phalanx of green and gold approaches the quay loaded to the gunnels with Sydney-siders impatient to experience the first night of Murphy’s ‘Aida’ after a tipple at Opera Bar. Their raucous laughter echoes across the waters.

Vincent sits on the balcony of his cabin. He holds the latest draft of the financial report. He deemed the balcony inadequate for his requirements. A cabin upgrade is scheduled prior to departure at 2200 hours. He reads.


Joan Elizabeth said...

I lived in a high rise in Kirribilli for a year or so and took in all those sights and sounds so beautifully described here. And yes, it was tiny cabin of a place with a little balcony.

However, I find the last paragraph of this story a little obscure. Two sorts of cabins muddling up together.

Julie said...

I nearly converted this to verse. I wanted to isolate him, not just tell his story. That is verse, not prose. I wanted everything else to be rich, embroidered and chaotic. I wanted him to be sterile and alone.

I stood on the top deck of the overseas terminal and used my long lens to capture this gentleman on one of the tres expensive outside cabins close to the top of one of those swish ocean liners.

It is just the socialist in me wanting to take him down a peg or three. He may have been a very nice gentleman ...

Joan Elizabeth said...

Now I get the reference to "cabin". I thought you were referring to a small flat or some such.

I was thinking after writing my comment that Julie=verse because so much of your description is extremely poetic. But then I thought a little longer and realise that you also have a very adept hand at telling a tale so there goes another theory.

Julie said...

What that means is that I have to choose my subjects appropriately. I can feel it as I write.