Crows on the Curb
by Tyler Berg
They perch on the curb in front of the factory, like so many rail thin crows exuding smoke from their haggard beaks.
They've been here.
They've been here a long while.
The plant's been sold a half dozen times and they remain, like old fixtures too awkward to replace.
They've no clout, no sway, nothing to flaunt really they're as easy to fire as the next man.
This crucible of industry has made them hard however, and surely as the sunrise they will endure long after the ruddy faces of freshly hired youngsters have ceased to infringe upon this perfectly maintained bastion of gloom.
I'll be one of them before too long, another shambling clockwork robot fueled by cheap cigarettes and cheaper coffee.
Perched on the curb waiting for retirement or death.
If you're lucky enough to retire that is.
Most folks aren't.
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Author's Note
Submitted as always without proper grammar or editorial review. This piece is shoddy and disjointed, a rambling slice of prose pie cut in the brief time I have on break.
Other stories by Tyler Berg
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Chilling and wonderfully paranoid.*
Bleak. *
I like the your approach to storytelling here. Much said in a small place.*
Yup. I'll never retire, although I'm fortunate not to work in heavy industry. I see these poor bastards though. They are my dad, and as hard as they are to remember, we shouldn't forget.
A post-Terminator, digital certainty, Tyler. There's plenty of room on the path.
Favorite moment - "I'll be one of them before too long, another shambling clockwork robot fueled by cheap cigarettes and cheaper coffee."