The old lady bit her nails. They were rough, jagged and didn’t reach the ends of her fingertips. George didn’t want to shake her hand, but he knew it would be impolite. She had introduced herself as Mrs. Jones, but mentioned that she liked to be called Marie anyway. George was terrible at names and had, at that crucial moment, been too distracted in remembering his own name as to not get it wrong - completely missing the introduction. Mrs. Marie Jones had bright auburn hair waving down to her shoulder, coloured so that it would not show the greys that she dreaded finding every morning in the mirror. She further worried that this stress would bring about ever more grey hairs. Her doctor had prescribed anti-anxiety medication, but she feared falling into a cycle of dependency. Instead, she bit her nails. George was still too young to understand the situation he was in, and was unable to ask for her for fear that she would realise that he did not remember her name. She was a certified foster mother, but only just. She’d failed her parenting certificate at the theory stage, however the foster parenting exam was significantly easier, and it was not unheard of for people to undergo an illegal pregnancy, orphan the baby, and then apply to adopt their own child as a foster parent. The success rate for this procedure was depressing, and repeat offenders were always litigated heavily and made barren or infertile. Marie hadn’t the courage, nor the necessary mate, to try. Yet she had more children than she’d ever dreamed of. Economic orphans, the category that George fell into, were allowed fortnightly visits from their natural parents. George’s father, James, was unable to visit anybody, and, similarly to George, was allowed just one visitor per month. These visiting days would occasionally coincide, forcing Alicia to abandon George for another fortnight in order to see both George and James at least once per month. George tried not to resent has father for these lapses in motherly contact. The days he could spend with his mother were invariably the highlights of his months. He got ice-cream, pizza, milkshakes all the things he knew were bad for him, but he was happy to enjoy in order to satisfy his mother’s need to provide for and pamper him. This mostly consistent contact aroused aroused jealousy amongst his foster siblings and made it hard for George to develop stronger bonds with them, leaving him an outsider inside his own home. Or the home that was designated to him. It had never felt like one, and it never would. A hand-carved wooden elephant acted as a paperweight on a desk that was in need of more than just one. Piles of paper lay scattered in an ambiguous phase between order and chaos, manicured enough to expose a flat screen embedded into the desk. A few photo-frames were spread around the outskirts facing inwards to a bulbous nose supporting wireframe glasses. His face hid behind these more prominent features, ballooning rosy cheeks over a weak chin and slim mouth. Grey hairs billowed out from his pinned ears, hinting at some vanity in his unnaturally dyed jet black hair that didn’t quite move enough when he spoke. “So,” his beady eyes glanced down to the screen, “George. George Francis Agramson. What brings you to apply at St. James College?” It was clear he was reading George’s application for the first time and was currently stalling to gather a firmer grasp of the applicant’s situation. George had prepared an answer for this question, paying it as much attention as his interviewer as he rambled through a series of praises and aspirations. George also took his time during his spiel to glance around the room and take stock of his interviewer. There was a placard underneath a stray sheet that he struggled to casually decipher; “Dr. Charles Johnston, Ph.D B.Bs M.BSc”. Books that looked suspiciously untouched lined shelves like a 3 dimensional wallpaper screaming for acknowledgement of wealth and intellectual superiority. “Excellent, very good. All well said.” Charles’ eyes had not left the screen, “I see you are applying for the economic orphan assistance grant.” His eyes rose up to finally find George, momentarily. George nodded, “Yes, sir.” Dr. Johnston was already reading. “Born into a two full-time working parents arrangement requiring continued employment to retain custody, with a one child limited license. At age 12, father,” a few hand gestures brought up the necessary information, “James Agramson, arrested at workplace subsidiary of Caprissa Corporation; accused and convicted of knowingly and consciously breaking contract,” George bit back his tongue: Caprissa had changed his father’s contract to include excessive additional hours at no extra pay - his father had refused to sign and so had been charged on the spot, “and forced to work off damages and legal costs in a court assigned labour prison. “Separated from mother due to changed economic situation and entered into foster home, bi-monthly visits allowed and, mostly, adhered to. Above average, below exceptional, academic record.” Charles looked up, top lip curling into a hint of a predatory smile as if he expected George to say something to defend this brash summation of his life. George had no excuses; he had done the best that he could, his situation was as described, and there was nothing but detail to add. Charles didn’t want detail. George smiled pleasantly in return. “I see you’ve indicated an interest in biomimetic engineering. Would you care to explain why you’ve chosen this field?” The interview swung back to its preordained schedule, George and Charles simply playing their roles as if in a theatrical production. It was likely that Dr. Charles Johnston was simply a lower echelon gateway, the real decision would be made elsewhere, behind closed doors and with no personal association, purely a profit driven exercise. George just had to try to imply that he was a low risk, high return investment. For all intents and purposes, he was. The debt associated with this application would hang over him for a long, long time.
0 Comments
|
Every week on Wednesday there'll be a new short story or poem added to this page.
Lets call it Words on Wednesdays. older
. . Self care - 26.01.2022 (Poem) Perceptions of reality - 2.02.2022 (Poem) Natural impunity - 9.02.2022 (Short Story) Lost in a Labyrinth - 2.03.2022 (Poem) Ministerial Standard - 23.03.2022 (Poem) Dungeons and Dating - 6.04.2022 (Short Story) Better Shared - 20.04.2022 (Poem) Touch to toilet - 27.04.2022 (Poem) Shooting Stars - 4.05.2022 (Short Story) Chop Shop - 18.05.2022 (Poem) Family Ties - 25.05.2022 (Short Story) Age of Consent - 8.06.2022 (Poem) Legacy - 24.08.2022 (Poem) Performative Enjoyment - 7.09.2022 (Poem) Bridge of Dreams - 7.12.2022 (Poem) Faultless - 22.12.2022 (Poem) Disconservative - 11.01.2023 (Poem) Single use - 1.03.2023 (Poem) Donor Cards - 6.04.2023 (Poem) Creative Art Say I - 13.04.2023 (Poem) Home-bound - 5.07.2023 (Short Story) Sand and Sea - 20.07.2023 (Short Story) Luminosity - 15.11.2023 (Short Story) About the AuthorA 33 year old medical intern who plays frisbee and likes long walks over mountains. Archives
November 2023
Categories
All
Add your email below to avoid missing out on some Words. They'll be on this website, but they could be in your inbox.
|