The Newsagency
5.45 pm.
A pair of artic blue eyes bludged on the besmirched clock that was stuck on a frame of white wall, neatly hidden underneath the circles of red '20 million' Lotto balloon's. And Like a preying lion that waited for attack on the oblivious baby deer, Summer stood in perfect standstill eyeing the clock as it ticked away time.
5.46 pm.
She sighed almost luridly, and in a sadistic manner her mind had already planned to bury her body in a mountain of dirt... anywhere but here. Time was moving in a snail's pace, and like an evil step-mother it had snatched away her comfort blanket sneering at her with a devilish smile.
Summer's pale limp body snapped to perfect frame as the screeches of a door swang open. The cries of the wooden floor filled the room as the steps of a well fed man drew closer to her presence.
"Any Customers?" A thick evenly coated Australian accent drummed against her ears.
There was a certain coldness mummified in his tone, that even when he tried to sound friendly it always sounded like a sick animal stifling on a cold night. Swallowing almost instantly, her head tilted towards his wrinkled face. His eyes were blue like the sky on a sunny day while strands of grey hair that was barely tamed remained the only evedience of a harsh and broken life he led.
"Few." She replied, feeling her lips turn dry.
"Mmm..." He voiced, a habit stemmed so deep that she had noticed was usually always his second reply.
His hands stained of grease, perhaps tainted from the chips he had taken into his office,tapped on the worn-out, out-dated computer. The receipt struggled and croaked its way through the machine before Mr Jones snatched it away. His eyes sketched through the figures penned on the paper like a dying solider reading his wife's letter -but only seconds later he crumpled the paper and aimlessly threw it on the bin.
Distant footsteps on the marbled floor just outside the shop could be heard approaching their way. Summer's eyes darted at the clock once more. 5.51 pm. Her stomach churned in dismay as her heart plunged on the core of her belly, annoyed and tired. Not another customer.
The shops doorbell rang. The door hissed open. Stepped in a woman dressed in all black from head to toe, only revieling her eyes. She was the modern day crusader, priding herself in her clothes that veiled her identity and yelled her belief. Suddenly the room resembled that of a theatre, hushed and quite as their suspecting gazes eyeballed the sojourner, the foreigner.
She was slow in pace, almost sluggish in the way she carried herself as though her body had suffered many wounds, perhaps she was old. There was no way of telling. There was a pause before she walked into the second aisle where children books stacked up.
She did not look like a thief or a criminal, delicately looking through children's ABC books but that did not matter, she was a foreigner, one of them. They were too different so much so that a weary silence crowded the room where our breaths were strictly forbidden to mingle together.
"Do you have the number puzzle book?" The Muslim woman asked, her voice directed only at Summer.
Summers memory almared her that there was a dozen more left in the store room but before she could nod, Mr Jones barked 'a no'. Too shocked to soak in the rasped rage interwoven in his voice, summer's head snapped towards her boss almost alarmingly.
"Are you sure?" the women sounded helpless... tired.
"Yes." stressed Mr Jones.
The woman nods almost afraid, perhaps drained of fighting.
"That would be $2.00 and 50 cents" Summer added to break the tension soaring the atmosphere.
Summer could see the anger blaze within her eyes but somehow with great effort, the muslim woman had reined it in. Her coins scattered on the counter before she said a final 'thank you' only in direct response to the small smile flowering in Summer's lips. The shop's doorbell rang. The door hissed open. Out walked the Muslim woman back into the bitter cold, which embraced her like an old friend.
Maybe, she'll try her luck with an another Newsagency.
I honestly hope no one takes offence in anything I have written or the way I have protrayed certain characters. Nothing is meant to be offensive, infact I wanted to enlighten you'se about certain aspects Muslims face in everyday life due to prejudice and ignorance. I am a muslim myself and I have worked in the Newsagency so this was very much inspired from bits and pieces I have experienced. I would like to stress that all Australians are NOT the way I have protrayed Mr Jones, infact Aussies are very open-minded and friendly but you know there is always the nutters, I myself met a few but hey I love Australia/ Aussies. The character of 'mr jones' is actually based on my ex-boss whom unfortunately died. I have mixed feelings about the way this has turned out so yeah, Idk, I think I like it as it is personal but I am not sure if the story flow is good, please be honest with your comments, tell it as it is, no sugar-coating please.
ps; I would like to stress that this has been also inspired by an unknown writer, and I surely hope she makes into the writing industry. So yeah.
Priyanka ;)
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