The Warehouse

I have found some ‘creative’ writing. It’s a non-fiction piece that I wrote during a lunch break while I was working in an aluminium factory. Enjoy.

He walks across the expanse of car park to find somewhere to take his mandatory ten minute break and comes across what looks like a school chair facing the warehouse he just left. Draining the water on the chair from the rain the night before, he turns the chair to face his surroundings and sit down.

The car park is a pale-grey concrete that, although the sun does penetrate the overcast sky, is glaring and difficult to look at. This is delineated by a hedgerow, browning and mostly dead with skeletons of trees protruding. The dying hedgerow breaks, giving a glimpse of a luscious corn field, cut off to him by an industrial fence.

He closes his eyes and feels the breeze brush against his face and run itself gently through his hair. Dried leaves drag and scrape across the floor and the sound of a siren cuts through the air. He leans back in his chair and rests his shoulders against the warehouse, and settled backwards. He feels the warehouse drain the heat from his back, goose bumps creep across his body; he can’t shiver.

The only colour in this place is the paint of beaten up cars and litter. The dark, drab green of the warehouse blends seamlessly into the dull grey of the floor which leads to the dreary brown hedgerows. All he can envisage is the never ending monotony of his surroundings. The sun breaks through the clouds and he feels the tingle, but not the warmth, of the sun against his face. This time he does shiver as he tries to convince himself the sun is warm.

As he opens his eyes everything has a blue tinge about it, it is all blue. Too blue.

As the breeze stops a silence falls about the place and it becomes empty.

“I hate this place”

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