Friday Flash Fiction - Overheard on the Tram
Picture this scene. Two friends, their destiny tattoos still tender, are on a tram heading from the vertical inner city to the lush outer clusters. Both have small horns that poke out from under their brightly coloured hair. In time, they will let their natural hair colour shine through, but for now, they deem the extra chips they have to use for expensive dye worth it.
Lean in closer, listen.
‘We should have brought a roadie.’
‘Nervous?’
‘Thirsty.’
‘Want to get off at the next stop and find a pub?’
‘Nah, this is already taking long enough.’
‘Parties in the outer clusters are meant to go off. It’ll be worth it.’
‘Yeah. Maybe. If they like me.’
‘Course they’ll like you! You sing like a siren.’
‘A siren!’ The girl with yellow and black patchwork hair snorts at this. ‘Yeah, I’m totally going to lure the naive ‘burb boys back to get smashed in the dangerous dens of the lane-ways.’
Look out the window. The flow of bicycles, scooters and pedestrians has thinned out. Green high-rises have mellowed into small houses nestling between fruit trees and veggie patches. Rooftop solar panels glint in the late afternoon sun. People tend to their gardens. A woman chases a chicken out of her tomatoes. A group of purple-stained children pick mulberries. The tram slides on.
What do our friends think of this unfamiliar, tranquil landscape so different from the lively inner clusters they are used to?
‘Huh, we’re really in the ‘burbs now. Look at all the possum boxes!’
‘I don’t get the appeal. Too quiet.’ The singer fidgets with the strap of her guitar case.
‘Not enough people, you mean. The birds...’ A flock of rainbow lorikeets squawk and chatter in the bottlebrushes lining the tram track. ‘But yeah, so boring. I couldn’t live all the way out here either.’
Forgive them; they are young. They haven't learnt yet that no one ideal way to live exists.
The tram’s gentle rocking and the distant call of kookaburras fill the silence. The singer’s fingers continue to fuss with the guitar case strap, her foot taps out a rhythm, and she murmurs song words under her breath. Her friend looks out the window at a massive gum tree, its gnarled branches silhouetted against the late afternoon sun. It stands like a sentinel, guarding the tranquil streets.
‘Look at that,’ she murmurs. ‘It’s like we’ve entered another world.’
Their wrist devs ping a split second apart. This is their stop. Watch as they hang back, waiting for the doors to open, reluctant to get off and leave the link to familiarity and their homes.
See how as they step off the tram, check the directions on their devs, and walk down the road, each step becomes more confident.
Wish them well.