The night shift proper, draft 1

So here it is, The first draft of the night shift, with a terrible ending.

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The night shift draft I

4/9/14

Sandra’s desk was neat and clean. She didn’t care for the clutter that was present on her colleagues work surfaces. Considering the desk itself was a highly responsive touch screen, clutter was a bad thing. She would watch every night as maintenance ran across her sector, and the screens calibrated themselves to compensate for the clutter. The red glow of the errors flashed around her, bathing the office in moody light. Her desk, as usual, was a shining beacon of blue-white light. Clutter free, error free, and generally well kept. That was Sandra’s desk, and that was Sandra.

She looked toward the center of her workstation, where a small notification quietly blinked. Her health monitor had scheduled her for a physical nearly a week ago. She tapped the ignore function and put it out of her mind. Sarah ate well, and took her vitamins every day. The only thing remotely unhealthy she did was sit at her desk and work all night. Yes, she was clean and tidy and her life was in order, and this thought brought her joy.

Her prized possessions sat on a table beside her. The table itself was quite a chore to obtain. It was a heavy, varnished , solid oak table with a straight cut running lengthwise across its surface. She remembered, briefly, her joy when the final piece of the table had been delivered. Her mother had carefully wrapped each piece and shipped them each separately over the course of 13 months. More than a year’s worth of supply runs later, and there it stood. Her only non-standard piece of office furniture and one of her few stabs at individuality.

Beside the clean desk and atop the fine oak side table sat a collection of things. These things were unique and diverse, very unlike Sandra but their meaning was clear. This collection of small to medium sized objects that caused no clutter on her desk was her treasure trove. She liked to think of herself as a Tolkeinian dragon, carefully guarding her possessions, keeping them safe in her lair. The thought amused her greatly, and so she kept it in her mind. It was generally small distractions that kept her going through the night shift.

Maintenance had a while yet before it finished, and so Sandra walked. She wound her way through the cubicles, and searched for a window. There was one located a few floors down from her allocated office space. That was not to say her office was ‘windowless’ or ‘oppressive’, there were OLEDs in the walls of most floors that would display tranquil environments. Forests, the ocean shore, and occasionally views of a bar toilet, but only when the team down in I.T. felt they deserved better pay. Such views were often missed, and always appreciated.

So Sandra walked. She wandered off into the dark office, toward the staircase and then down the staircase. She lightly grasped the railing and descended into more dimly lit office scape. She passed by R&D, and the Technical Monitoring Center, and the Communal Break Lounge. Her journey ended at the Human Resources department. This office floor was set up a little different. Plush beanbag chairs were arranged in a semicircle in front of a projector screen. There were potter plants here, real ones, unlike the small plastic daisy in her trove of treasures. There were windows too, real windows with real and often unbelievable views.

She moved towards the nearest window, and relaxed at the sight before her. The city sprawl stretched to the edge of the dome. The dome stretched to the sky. Beyond the dome, space stretched into infinity. The earth rose on the horizon, and its reflected light cast a soft blue glow on the city above it. This was one of those moments, she thought, one of those moments that really keep me going. Her gaze traveled down 'main street', across the arboretum, past the greenhouses, and settled upon her apartment building. She had left the light on in the sitting room, again.

Soon her thoughts returned to her desk,and to her treasure trove. She turned from the window and would her way back across the office floor and back to the staircase. Back up the flights of stairs, she climbed, and soon she found her landing. She moved between the now darkened workstations and back to her gently glowing surface. It had passed, once again. Through maintenance without incident.

Her seat groaned as she settle back in for the rest of her shift. The chair had served her well over the years she'd spent on tranquility. She stretched herself out, and tapped her toes against the wall of her cubicle. On the periphery of her vision, she saw her daisy. She reached an arm behind her and picked up the 'plant'.

It was a poor recreation of the real thing, but she loved it anyway. The soft plastic weave once carried the scent of sandalwood, but the oil had long since faded. She missed the smell, but scented oils were not very cost effective to ship to the colony, and the chance of the bottle smashing in transit was very real. No, she would go without fancy oils and just appreciate the daisy for what it was, a grounding rod in the maelstrom of her lunar bound life and the last comfort she had during this long night shift.

The reminder flashed again, startling her. She spluttered loudly and lapsed into a coughing fit as the spit in her throat irritated her respiratory tract. The jolt had another, deeper effect. Deep within Sandra's body, the cumulative effect of her long shifts and exposure to reduced gravity betrayed her. The clot, a small mass of organic matter, rocketed through her body. It settled in her lungs, and the next wrenching cough brought forth foam and blood. Sandra stared at the splatter on her screen as it slowly dripped past the ignore function.

A deep pain blossomed within her chest, and Sandra began to panic. The irony of this event was not lost on her. Clutching at her blouse, she slapped at the service button on her workstation. The icon was unresponsive. Sarah slapped the console again, and realized the blood and foam across her desk had caused multiple touch inputs, rendering the console unusable. She lurched forward , and wiped the spew from her screen.

Sandra lapsed again into a coughing fit, more blood and more foam issued from her mouth. She held her sleeve in front of her face to stop the mess from hitting her screen. The coughing did not subside, her panic grew. She slapped feebly at the screen, her body weak from coughing. Her fingertips hit the service icon and the menu expanded to fill the screen. Her hand rose shaking before her, she was still coughing and very out of breath. The breaths she managed were rattling with phlegm, foam, and blood. Her lungs felt shredded, and she was succumbing to the darkness pressing in from the corners of her vision.

Sandra managed to brush against the option for Medical Services, and the call went out. The alert would sound at the medical offices two blocks away, and the crew would be at her office within seven minutes. Sandra's coughing subsided again, but the effort of trying to breathe had taken a large toll on her body. Dazed and exhausted, she tried to stand. Her legs refused to support her and she grabbed at her side table to stop her fall. Her hand found the potted daisy instead, and down she went daisy in hand. Before Sandra lost consciousness, she saw only her daisy and thought only of sandalwood.

Sandra's body was found within ten minutes of her call. Resuscitation failed, and her death marked the first casualty on the colony.

The night shift

The Night Shift and Relevant Musings


I haven't updated in quite a while, but I have been working.

I'm now reviving an old story I wrote back in High School.

As I don't have an original copy of the story, I need to pull it right out of my brain, and that's never easy.

Here's a sample, and I'll have the whole thing up in the near future.


The Night Shift

Sandra’s desk was neat and clean. She didn’t care for the clutter that was present on her colleagues work surfaces. Considering the desk itself was a highly responsive touch screen, clutter was a bad thing. She would watch every night as maintenance ran across her sector, and the screens calibrated themselves to compensate for the clutter.  The red glow of the errors flashed around her, bathing the office in moody light. Her desk, as usual, was a shining beacon of blue-white light. Clutter free, error free, and generally well kept. That was Sandra’s desk, and that was Sandra.

Her prized possessions sat on a table beside her. The table itself was quite a chore to obtain. It was solid oak. It was a heavy, varnished table with a straight cut running lengthwise across its surface. She remembered, briefly, her joy when the final piece of the table had been delivered. Her mother had carefully wrapped each piece and shipped them each separately over the course of 13 months. More than a year’s worth of supply runs later, and there it stood. Her only non-standard piece of office furniture and one of her few stabs at individuality.

Beside the clean desk and atop the fine oak side table sat a collection of things. These things were unique and diverse, very unlike Sandra but their meaning was clear. This collection of small to medium sized objects that caused no clutter on her desk was her treasure trove. She liked to think of herself as a Tolkeinian dragon, carefully guarding her possessions, keeping them safe in her lair. The thought amused her greatly, and so she kept it in her mind. It was generally small distractions that kept her going through the night shift.

Maintenance had a while yet before it finished, and so Sandra walked. She wound her way through the cubicles, and searched for a window. There was one located a few floors down from her allocated office space. That was not to say her office was ‘windowless’ or ‘oppressive’, there were OLEDs in the walls of most floors that would display tranquil environments. Forests, the ocean shore, and occasionally views of a bar toilet, but only when the team down in IT felt they deserved better pay. Such views were often missed, and always appreciated.

I'll keep working on it, and posting what I finish. Cheers.

The Lamppost Revision 2, or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Accept Change.

I tackled this revision with the hopes of playing up the lamppost and downplaying the existence of the young man excepting the slow death he suffered.

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The Lamppost

The inky black of the side street was broken only by a single light. Its amber glow touched down on the recently disturbed side walk. The concrete had within the circle of light only one tenant, a young man who could barely have stepped foot into his twenties. His solid form created an oasis of shadow contained by the light. The lamppost stood above him, a sentinel in the dark. It was doing its job well.

The lamppost’s warm light fell upon the messy mop of hair that capped the still head of the young man. The light slid deep into his increasingly pale skin, and collected on his cheeks and forearms. He was well lit from above, and not a visible inch of him was outside the reach of the lamppost’s light. The mercury vapor bulb continued to shine. Years of wear had done little to hamper its effectiveness. It was a good lamp; it did its job well.

As the night drew on, the ground beneath the young man continued to darken. This was not by fault of the lamp. The dark spot was fluidic, and flared with the reflected amber light. With deep red hue, the darkness continued to spread. It trailed off beyond the faint boundary of where the light met the dark.

The young man began to stir. Tonight, the constant drone of the lamppost’s bulb was accompanied by a soft gurgling. This could be traced to its source, deep within the lungs of the slumped figure. His tensed shoulders loosened against the grey steel of the lamppost’s supporting pole. It was a very sturdy pole, and it had aided the lamp in its years of hard work. Held aloft by the pole; the lamp shone on in the dark night as it had for years and as it would.

Now the gurgling, caused by the dark hole through his abdomen, slowed. The wound was ragged and deep, and well lit on the surface. The depths of the hole were lost to the pervasive dark. The deep red of his blood seeped into his once white shirt. Perhaps a surgical lamp would have revealed more of the grievous wound, but the lamp had done all it was required to. The lamp was not ambitious, nor was it able to be. It was a good lamp, and it did only the job it was made to do.

The cold sweat of the young dying man slid down from his brow to the end of his sharp nose. Illuminated along its path and reflecting tiny splashes of light across his pale lips and sunken cheeks. His unremarkable brown eyes began to glaze, and the light of dawn swept the sky. His breath rattled once more, a soft vapor caught in the constant illumination. His life left him as the surrounding dark peeled away like an orange, revealing a fresh day. The streetlight fell dark. It was a good lamp; it did its job well, and now that job was done. Now left in the brightening world was a warm corpse against a cold grey lamppost.

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The Lamppost [The Street Lamp Revision 1]

The Lamp Post Rev I

The second draft of an intriguing concept. I wanted to explore a scene where the main character is a Lamppost that does nothing but light the scene to the best of its ability

I feel like I hit it spot on with this revision.

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The Lamppost

The darkness of the side street was broken only by a single light. Its amber glow broke through to the recently disturbed side walk. The concrete had within the circle of light only one tenant, a young man who could barely have broken into his twenties. His dark shadow created an oasis contained by the light. The lamppost stood above him, a sentinel in the dark. It had done its job well.

The lamppost’s warm light fell upon the messy mop of hair that capped the still head of the young man. The light slid deep into his increasingly pale skin, and seemed to collect on his cheeks and forearms. He was well lit from above, and not a visible inch of him was outside the reach of the lamppost’s light. The mercury vapor bulb continued to shine. Years of wear had done little to hamper its effectiveness. It was a good lamp; it did its job well.

As the night drew on, the ground beneath the young man continued to darken. This was not the fault of the lamp. The dark spot flared with the reflected amber light. With deep red hue, the darkness continued to spread. It trailed off beyond the faint boundary of where the light met the dark.

The young man began to stir. His eyes fluttered open; catching the beautiful amber glow. His ragged breathing started to ease, and his tensed shoulders loosened against the grey steel of the lamppost’s supporting pole. It was a very sturdy pole, and it had aided the lamp in its years of hard work. Held aloft by the pole; the lamp shone on in the dark night as it had for years and as it would.

Now his breathing slowed; likely caused by the dark hole through his abdomen. The bullet wound was ragged and deep, and well lit on the surface. The depths of the hole were lost to the pervasive dark. The deep red of his blood seeped into his once white shirt. Perhaps a surgical lamp would have revealed more of the grievous wound, but the lamp had done all it was required to. The lamp was not ambitious, nor was it able to be. It was a good lamp, and it did only the job it was made to do.

The cold sweat of the young dying man slid down from his forehead to the end of his sharp nose. Illuminated along its path and reflecting tiny splashes of light across his pale lips and sunken cheeks. His unremarkable brown eyes began to glaze, and the light of dawn swept the sky. His breath rattled once more, a soft vapor caught in the constant illumination. His life left him as the surrounding dark peeled away like an orange, revealing a fresh day. The streetlight fell dark. It was a good lamp; it did its job well, and now that job was done. Now left in the brightening world was a warm corpse against a cold grey lamppost.

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The street lamp, a conceptual piece about street lamps.

The street lamp, a first draft of an intriguing concept. I wanted to tell the story of a street lamp witnessing a murder, with the street lamp being the most important character.

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The Street Lamp

The inky dark was broken only by a single light. Its amber glow pierced through to the recently disturbed side walk. The concrete had only one tenant, a young man who could barely have broken into his twenties. The lamp post stood above him, a sentinel in the dark. It had done its job well.

The lamp’s amber light fell upon the messy mop of hair that capped the still head of the young man. His increasingly pale skin given life by the glow, but the end was drawing near. He was well lit, not an inch of the boy was outside the reach of the street lamp’s light. Its mercury vapor bulb continued to shine. Years of wear had done little to hamper its effectiveness. It was a good lamp; it did its job well.

As the night drew on, the ground beneath the boy darkened. This was not the fault of the lamp. The new dark spot shone and sparkled with reflected light. A deep red hue, the darkness continued to spread. The boy began to stir.

His eyes fluttered open, catching the beautiful amber glow. His ragged breathing started to ease, and his tensed shoulders loosened against the grey steel of the lamp post’s supporting pole. It was a very sturdy pole, and it had aided the lamp in its years of hard work. Held aloft by the pole, the lamp shone on in the dark night.

Now his breathing slowed; likely caused by the dark hole through his abdomen. The bullet wound was ragged and deep, and well lit on the surface. The depths of the hole were lost to the pervasive dark. The deep red of his blood had begun to dry to a crusty brown. Perhaps a surgical lamp would have revealed more of the grievous wound, but the lamp had done enough.
 

The cold sweat of a dying man slid down to the end of his sharp nose. His unremarkable brown eyes began to glaze, and the light of dawn tinged the sky. His breath rattled once more, and his life left him as the surrounding dark peeled away like an orange, revealing a fresh day, a fruit ripe and tender. The streetlight fell dark. It was a good lamp; it did its job well, and now that job was done. Now left in the brightening world was a cold corpse against an equally cold grey street light.

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