The Guard: A Middle East Fantasy
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
The sentinel shifted his book from his right knee to his left knee, scooted his butt against the plastic of his chair, stretched his hands in front of his shoulders and yawned. Noting that there were three hours left on his shift, he contently patted his abdomen and sighed.
That watchdog had been little inspired to fight against his collected adipose tissue. Mostly, he didn’t mind that the fat made him look pregnant. A large stomach, buoyed a bit, by underlying abdominal muscles could be caressed and talked to like the baby his wife never had.
In balance though, he refused to wear glasses. It was bad enough that his hair was thinning and that, at his advanced age he still suffered from occasional outbreaks of acne. Spectacles would be over the top; they would push people’s esteem of him so low as to place it beyond redemption. He had been hired to watch out for terrorists, not to perform handwriting analysis.
The job was dull. Other than reading, that lookout had few diversions and even fewer willing associates. Perhaps it was the uniform. He sat at the gate encased in garb constructed from industrial heat protection materials padded with extra abrasion resistance in order that his clothing withstand molten splashes and flame. A corporate manager, who had been unwilling to splurge for a padded chair for the guard, had also deemed such shielding necessary.
The weight of the sentry’s costume wearied his arms and made his legs sore. Plus, his outfit gave the company’s workers another reason to point and to laugh.
Worse, though, was the gothic painting, created by company owner's second wife, which was the lone ornament in the guard’s cramped station. That artifact stared down at him, seemingly ready to relieve him of his responsibilities in painful fashion. If only his hideyhole had been adorned with a potted plant or with ordinary graffiti, his job would have been more comfortable.
Nonetheless, as things are wont to do, days became weeks, which became months, which became years. The defender lost more hair, gained more kilos and continued to leave his glasses at home. At least his worsening eyesight blurred the hideous guardhouse portrait.
One night, when unbidden thoughts of pillows, of parkways, of packed lunches, and of small ways in which he could revenge himself upon the new generation of employees who mocked him filled his head, a visitor wearing an overcoat, approached the gate. The man shivered and quivered despite the fact that he was dressed in layers and that it was a hot night in July.
The man pushed his clipboard through the port in the window of the guard’s booth. The protector, in turn, as he had done for almost a decade, rifled through the papers, grunted a bit, cleared his throat, turned the pages once more and stared at the would be entrant. He guard could barely discern a dark blotch where the man’s mouth was and the two smaller blotches where his eyes were. He waved the man through.
Moments later, the company’s windows burst from the heat of flames. Bits of bodies covered the corporation’s pricey landscaping.
His back toward the destruction, though, the guard saw none of this. His ears filled with the music of his headphones, he likewise heard nothing. In fact, when, according to his watch, his shift was over, a mere two minutes after the incident, the hired help took his leave of his station.
Though he was supposed to stay until the next paid protector came, he often didn’t wait; the fellow on the next shift was a perpetual laggard and waiting for him to show up meant missing a convenient bus. In the decades of his employment, no one ever mentioned that gap in the guard’s protocol. That day, as well, no one said anything.
- - -
KJ Hannah Greenberg and her imaginary hedgehogs write speculative fiction because they insist that crafting narratives about gelatinous monsters, about anthropomorphisized beasts, and about futures in which peoples' feelings actually matter, makes for good reading. Look for their work in print and electronic venues, including in AlienSkin Magazine, AntipodeanSF, Bards and Sages, Big Pulp, Morpheus Tales, Strange, Weird and Wonderful, Theaker's Quarterly Fiction, and The New Absurdist.
By KJ Hannah Greenberg
The sentinel shifted his book from his right knee to his left knee, scooted his butt against the plastic of his chair, stretched his hands in front of his shoulders and yawned. Noting that there were three hours left on his shift, he contently patted his abdomen and sighed.
That watchdog had been little inspired to fight against his collected adipose tissue. Mostly, he didn’t mind that the fat made him look pregnant. A large stomach, buoyed a bit, by underlying abdominal muscles could be caressed and talked to like the baby his wife never had.
In balance though, he refused to wear glasses. It was bad enough that his hair was thinning and that, at his advanced age he still suffered from occasional outbreaks of acne. Spectacles would be over the top; they would push people’s esteem of him so low as to place it beyond redemption. He had been hired to watch out for terrorists, not to perform handwriting analysis.
The job was dull. Other than reading, that lookout had few diversions and even fewer willing associates. Perhaps it was the uniform. He sat at the gate encased in garb constructed from industrial heat protection materials padded with extra abrasion resistance in order that his clothing withstand molten splashes and flame. A corporate manager, who had been unwilling to splurge for a padded chair for the guard, had also deemed such shielding necessary.
The weight of the sentry’s costume wearied his arms and made his legs sore. Plus, his outfit gave the company’s workers another reason to point and to laugh.
Worse, though, was the gothic painting, created by company owner's second wife, which was the lone ornament in the guard’s cramped station. That artifact stared down at him, seemingly ready to relieve him of his responsibilities in painful fashion. If only his hideyhole had been adorned with a potted plant or with ordinary graffiti, his job would have been more comfortable.
Nonetheless, as things are wont to do, days became weeks, which became months, which became years. The defender lost more hair, gained more kilos and continued to leave his glasses at home. At least his worsening eyesight blurred the hideous guardhouse portrait.
One night, when unbidden thoughts of pillows, of parkways, of packed lunches, and of small ways in which he could revenge himself upon the new generation of employees who mocked him filled his head, a visitor wearing an overcoat, approached the gate. The man shivered and quivered despite the fact that he was dressed in layers and that it was a hot night in July.
The man pushed his clipboard through the port in the window of the guard’s booth. The protector, in turn, as he had done for almost a decade, rifled through the papers, grunted a bit, cleared his throat, turned the pages once more and stared at the would be entrant. He guard could barely discern a dark blotch where the man’s mouth was and the two smaller blotches where his eyes were. He waved the man through.
Moments later, the company’s windows burst from the heat of flames. Bits of bodies covered the corporation’s pricey landscaping.
His back toward the destruction, though, the guard saw none of this. His ears filled with the music of his headphones, he likewise heard nothing. In fact, when, according to his watch, his shift was over, a mere two minutes after the incident, the hired help took his leave of his station.
Though he was supposed to stay until the next paid protector came, he often didn’t wait; the fellow on the next shift was a perpetual laggard and waiting for him to show up meant missing a convenient bus. In the decades of his employment, no one ever mentioned that gap in the guard’s protocol. That day, as well, no one said anything.
- - -
KJ Hannah Greenberg and her imaginary hedgehogs write speculative fiction because they insist that crafting narratives about gelatinous monsters, about anthropomorphisized beasts, and about futures in which peoples' feelings actually matter, makes for good reading. Look for their work in print and electronic venues, including in AlienSkin Magazine, AntipodeanSF, Bards and Sages, Big Pulp, Morpheus Tales, Strange, Weird and Wonderful, Theaker's Quarterly Fiction, and The New Absurdist.
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