A Short Story in 500 words or less: The Patient Wait

28 August 2016.

Splat! I find myself smacked against the side view mirror of a car. The driver looks at me, pauses to decide whether to slow down but then glances at his dashboard and continues speeding away.

            I was born in China. My family came along with me to India, squashed sided by side, in a cramped dark hold. Two weeks later we were bundled and sold at a market. An old man bought my family and took us to his house. On reaching, I was separated from the others because I was black. I didn’t mind it, as my master seemed quite cheerful. One day when I was alone, a gentle breeze took me away from my master’s house. I don’t think he missed me, as I did not make any newspaper headlines. I followed the breeze to the bank of a river. Presently, I heard a voice calling out, “Oi! Jump in won’t you?” I looked down and saw my cousin in the murky water. “Don’t worry, you’ll float!” he shouted. I was scared for I did not know how to swim and was in two minds when I found myself being propelled forcibly through the air, towards the water. Before I hit the surface I got a glimpse of a lanky teenager watching me as I pirouetted onto the murky surface. To my amazement, I did not sink so I allowed the river waters to carry me quite a distance.

            The next morning some boys in ragged clothes picked me and sold me to another man. I was travelling in his truck when the breeze lifted me and smacked me against the car’s side view mirror. So here I am hurtling along at 80 kmph, and getting rather dizzy. In a minute or so the car stops at a signal, which allows me to quietly slip off. I spend the rest of the day by the side of the road along with others who look like me. Some have markings on them; some are injured, old and wrinkly while others have scraps of food with them. A lady in uniform gathers us and places us in the back of a big truck.

            The truck slows down after a while and I notice a strange rotten smell. Before I can protest, I am thrown into a dark pit. Death and decay embrace me and in the gloom I hear a voice. “Don’t worry. Its only a matter of time.” I squint and find another like me with a red stripe across his body. I ask him what he means. He says, “ You have just arrived but some of us have been here for decades. Our bodies do not decay. Every day we grow in number and soon we will rule.” As he finished, I notice an inscription on his back, “ZIPLOC…test product of the Dow Chemical Company, 1968.”