The Start

Prochorus is sitting on a bench by the road. There’s a notebook in his lap. He’s waiting for a tram.
A heavy weight hangs between his shoulders and his soul. An anchor.
People hurry past Prochorus as he sits on the bench. But it doesn’t seem right to put it that way. He is surrounded by the people, the traffic, the cables strung overhead, the towers of images, the distant clouds. But all of it seems distant.
Prochorus looks through the notebook. It is his book of clues and hints. Things that have been niggling away at the back of his mind. Photographs, newspaper clippings, scribbled ideas, scraps of photocopied records. A feather. A map. A dry leaf.
He slumps.
‘What do I do?’
The old woman sitting next to Prochorus suggests several options. He does not find them particularly helpful.

Prochorus hasn’t planned to tell Annelida and Angryblocks about his botherment. But when they turn up for dinner he finds it hard keeping silent. As they eat he finds that keeping silent only gets him more bothered. They deserve to know.
He tells them.
‘I’m worried.’
Annelida’s eyes widen.
‘What about?’
Prochorus sighs.
‘Seems like the whole world’s … in this … cycle of destruction.’
Angryblocks raises his eyebrows.
‘What’re ya talkin’ about?’
‘Well… We’ve just been trying to get as much stuff as well can, whatever it takes, and when we get sick of something we just chuck it out or store it away somewhere in case we need it one day. We basically do whatever feels good for us, or whatever keeps us safe and comfortable for the moment. We send soldiers to other countries so they can blow each other up, and maybe get us a good deal on petrol. It’s a destructive cycle, and we’re all contributing to it! How long till all the stuff we need to live gets ruined or used up? There’s got to be some way of breaking the cycle.’
‘Ahh… finished?’ says Angryblocks.
‘Finished?’ says Prochorus. ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’
Annelida reaches across the dinner table and puts her hand on Prochorus’ wrist.
‘You shouldn’t get so worked up about it, mate.’
‘Beer, Prochorus?’ says Angryblocks.
‘Nah thanks,’ says Prochorus. ‘Not now.’
‘You’ll feel better. It’ll help ya not worry so much.’
‘Nah.’
Prochorus stares at the wall.
Annelida looks at her watch.
‘I gotta go.’
‘What time is it?’ asks Angryblocks.
‘Nine.’
‘Mmm. I’d better go too.’

Prochorus lies in bed. He is counting sheep, just as much to distract himself as to try and get to sleep.
‘Argh,’ he says.
He gets up out of bed. He finds his camera and puts it in his pocket. He leaves his apartment and takes the elevator up to the roof of his building.
He gets out of the elevator and walks out into the cold.
The air is still tonight. He can’t see the stars. The moon’s glow is barely visible behind the clouds.
Prochorus gets back into the elevator. The elevator takes him back down. He passes the floor he lives on. The elevator stops at the ground floor.
Prochorus gets out of the elevator. He heads through the lobby and back out into the cold.
He trudges through the streets of the city floor. There aren’t many people around. A taxi goes past every now and then.
After walking the streets for some time, Prochorus makes his way along between towering car-parks of Flintage Lane, toward Tubing Place. He peers around the corner into Tubing Place. The walls of tubing place are covered in layer upon layer of home-made stickers, monochrome posters with peeling corners, stencil art, felt-tip pen tags, aerosol murals, photocopied cut-outs of cartoon characters.
There is nobody in the lane. Prochorus ventures in. He takes out his camera. He is in his pyjamas.

Prochorus is back at his aparentment. He is at the computer, looking through the photos he as taken.
The photo shows part of a concert poster. In the margin of a the poster, someone has scribbled:

It’s not working
It’s a joke
We’ve all been tricked

Prochorus prints out this photo. He opens his notebook to the first empty page and writes the date at the top. He sticks the photo in with sticky tape.

It could be ten in the morning. Prochorus is in bed. He is almost asleep. His phone rings.
Prochorus says, ‘Argh.’
He opens his eyes. He reaches for his phone find it on top of the chest of drawers beside his bed.
It’s Angryblocks.
‘Hello.’
‘Hi Prochorus, just thought I should call and see if you’re any better since last night, maybe?’
‘Nah. Think I’m worse.’
‘Oh. That’s a pity.’
‘I’m gunna do something about it though. I’m gunna find a new system. And if I can’t find one, maybe I’ll make one up.’
‘Um, yeah. Okay. See ya, mate.’
Angryblocks hangs up. He puts his phone down on the café table.
‘He’s fooped the loot,’ he says.
‘Weird,’ says Annelida.
Disfriction has a confused look on her face.
‘What’s going on with him?’
‘Dunno,’ says Angryblocks. ‘Keeps going on about how we’re wrecking the world or something. Was saying something about some new system.’
‘Okay,’ says Disfriction.


writing, novel, street art