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Short story: <i>Aspiration</i>

I like to ensure that, before I leave the house for the morning, my beard is freshly trimmed, my teeth are shining like a toothpaste commercial, and the tips of my shoes are gleaming with reflected early morning sunlight. I use cold cream on my face at night to keep my skin elastic, and every second evening place cucumber slices over my closed eyes to restore that green glint, to reduce redness, and to slow down the aging process.

Nobody in this street can hold a candle to my presentation. They are all so provincial by comparison, with their unlofty ambitions and their non-appreciation in the finer things. It's like being relegated to a social mire, living here. I intend to move quite soon, once I find a suitable place to relocate.

Once I get to work this morning, I have so many things to occupy myself with! I have to wait for that plebian partner of mine, I have to ensure the truck works effectively before taking it out, I have to argue with said partner about who is driving and then, we head out for a satisfactory day on the road, meandering around the locations in which I one day hope to live.

I hope I don't get stuck on the back of the truck today. The smell can become a bit unpleasant, and the refuse has away of attaching itself to one's clothes. I get home smelling like a filthy pig bladder. Even when I wear my nostril plugs, it gets a bit much.

But when you're on the back of the truck, you tend to meet people. And even though the rich old dears call me "the garbageman" instead of my name, at least I've been noticed. I'm hoping this Christmas I'll be invited in for a cup of tea again.

This is the result of a fifteen minute writing exercise. The only constrictions were the time limit and five randomly selected words from the dictionary. Today the words were: provincial, mire, glint, trim, and bladder.

Image courtesy of Jana Mills.

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