Michael Z. Atrata
Storyteller of bizarre outsiders doing questionable things.
Whether I believed in it or not was irrelevant, at that time in my life nothing could have been further from my mind. I awoke every morning with my girlfriend; young and in love, poor, in the big bad world, together. I would make her breakfast and coffee while she showered and dressed for work.
World of Sh*t
They wheeled her in, screaming, swelling with life. A large woman and her still growing foetus, the latter being slowly and all too soon ejected from his motherly chamber, that origin of the world. As I mopped the white floors, nauseous from the sharp smell of the cleaning agents, the nurses and a doctor rushed the woman down the corridor where I’m sure there were devices for both mother and child. Curious, I feigned to clean outside that room to see if the mother would keep her life, if the child would begin a new one. I heard the doctor spouting orders to the nurses; the doctor, that clean blue-eyed and manicured gentleman who would never say good morning to me, the lowly janitor. He, to whom I say, “Excuse me, please” when needing to walk by as he blocks my way, never responds with even a derogatory remark. I don’t exist in his high plain, and he can’t see me way down here in the valley of the sallow.