A very short story I wrote a few years ago. I used to work in the textile industry. This was written after I left driving past a factory (not the one I worked in) in the process of being demolished. A workman was sitting eating his lunch. I imagined all the other workmen through the years when the factory was a factory.
DO GHOSTS EVER DIE?
The man sat on the
loading bay in front of the rotting corpse of the factory, that rose fully four
storeys above him. All about him the bulldozers cracked the factory
like an egg, for the silent workmen in helmets and masks to fill lorry after
lorry with the dust strewn remains of the buildings.
The man did not
have a hat. The man did not have a mask. The man carefully unfolded the package
that lay beside him and began to eat his carefully prepared lunch.
Dust swirled, and
bricks tumbled, and wood cracked, but the man sat, and ate, and wiped his face
free from the sweat of the mornings work.
A sudden tilt of
the head back towards the factory, and a disappointed face, and the man rose
and stretched, then folded his carefully prepared sandwiches away.
He looked out at
the small crowd that had gathered on the hillside opposite the factory, that
watched and winced with every whip of the bulldozer against the crumbling
building.
A sudden shout and
the workmen turned to gather at the safety of the gate. Then the sudden
gathering of noise and the man walked deep into the bones of the factory that
crumpled to dust, and he was gone.
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