Young Writers Society

Peter Dexter looked through the dusty mirror at his hair, critiquing it unscrupulously. He judged it too greasy with gel as he slicked back a film of the stuff on his head, a small, innocent critique which allowed the other shortcomings of his appearance to unravel in the reflection. His suit jacket, already weathered and worn bore a striking stain, somehow more visible than the black it was embedded in. His dress shirt was crinkled with permanent folds that looked like and might as well have been pencil etches. As his judgement concerned itself with his face, pitying the bloodshot eyes that gazed sleepily at him, he accepted the fact that it would not be looks that won them over. Even in the most formal attire that he had, he looked like a wreck. But he was formal nonetheless, and that’s all he cared about. All they cared about, anyway.

As he entered the kitchen where Esther was sitting, the low ceiling descended irregularly and diagonal, hitting him square in the head as he lifted it through the low doorway. His face reddened as he almost cursed out loud in front of Esther. He hated that ceiling, its flickering lights, the cracked walls supporting it and how it almost made him swear in front of Esther. But if today went well, that could change. If today went really well in fact, he might be able to find a new ceiling to worry about altogether. Esther noticed him, and although only four months pregnant, she already had the most motherly smile, among her other flawless features.

“Good morning, dear.” She said sweetly. She said that everyday, always able to make every bad morning he had a stellar one, like magic.

“Good morning.” He said faintly and with a much weaker smile. He noticed the ancient mug on his side of the table, smelling the bitter aroma from the black liquid and hardly believing his senses. They didn’t have coffee. All they had was what was leftover from her parents and… no, she wouldn’t have used that. But as soon as he came to that seemingly impossible conclusion she smiled at him again, showing that was exactly what she had done, knowing it was a special occasion. Almost embarrassed she had he sat down and held the mug gingerly in his hand. To some and to most in fact the drink probably was too bland for words, almost just hot water, after all Esther didn’t have much left from her parents. But Peter savoured each sip, the taste hot and vibrant on his tongue. She left out an apple for him too, one fresh and plump, its existence in their flat an unexplainable gift. So far, the morning was nice, almost perfect, but Esther eventually set aside her mug and asked the question she eventually, rightfully had to ask.

“How will it go today?”

Peter set down his mug, but kept fiddling with the handle.

“I don’t know, dear. It won’t be easy, but I think I’ve got a chance. I think-”

“-Dear.” She said simply with more narrowed eyes. She loved him more than anything and he knew that, but she could tell he knew the real answer. It was a simple yes or no. “Just tell me. Please. How will it go?”

Peter was about to answer her, answer honestly too, until he banged his watch on the table from his childish fiddling.

“Damnit!” He cried. But that only brought his attention to the time. Quarter to nine. He had to be there at the hour. “I-I have to go,” His nerves burst into action, both grabbing his keys and kissing Esther goodbye at lightning speed.

“Dear, dear!” She laughed at his desperate goodbye, but before he turned away she stopped him with seriousness. “What will happen?” Peter stood there a moment, resting his head on hers. He could’ve told her the truth, she’d still love him, and wasn’t that all that mattered? He paused a bit more, forgetting about the precious minutes that passed by.

“It’ll be fine.” He finally said. “There’s always a right way to do something, and if I know it, well-” He snatched the apple off the table. “-It’ll be like picking an apple from a tree.” She smiled at him one last time before he went out the door, as ready as he’d ever be to pluck an apple from Mars.

Dust fell sporadically, shooting in between the cracks of brick in the ceiling, evident signs of an excited crowd above. The dungeon-esque room underneath the colosseum bore that brunt each day, the heavy pounding of feet from spectators as another man fell. The roll of bread Camulos ate was stale, god-awful along with the slimy vegetables, but he could hardly taste them, for today was his day. It was his day either way fate led it, though he hoped it was the latter in his mind. Among the still, silent atmosphere of the room nothing moved except for the flicker of the candles and the constant, irritable thudding. An echoing group of footsteps approached the door, adding to the modest symphony. A trio of soldiers marched up to the cell door and one began to fiddle with the lock. He barely had to step another foot into the cramped cell to unshackle Camulos.

“They want you ready to go out soon. Up you get.” He ordered. In the moment of release Camulos felt he went to stand, only for his legs and mind to lock, urging him to sit back down. His body shook subtly and his blood pumped faster while also turning to ice. All the other fights before, they weren’t the same. Each was dangerous and with only a slim chance of success and his survival, but this time he was fighting for something more than that, with his chance feeling even thinner. He looked down at his torso and loinclothed waist, thin and bruised along with a few remnant scars. Perhaps it was paranoia and pure worry, but every time he felt weaker and older, a bit closer to slipping from success each time. Would he fail now? No he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, that was simply so. One of the guards banged on the cell bars. “Hey! Come on now, you damn Gaul, up you get.”

His time had come and admittedly, he wasn’t ready. But alas, if it was he who decided when his time was, it would never come.

On the other side of the walls, typewriters clicked with unnerving speed, a great mass of them, a thought which turned Peter’s insides to ice. They were smart, smart enough to know they didn’t need another out-of-business typist to add to their horde. The print shop, before it was boarded up, was kind enough to give him some suggestions. Work was already tough to find before, and the only place it seemed he might be able to fit the bill for was here. Even though it likely was a normal and perhaps even smaller than usual to most it was a tremendous mountain of a business tower to Peter, white and pristine, clean, ornately tiled and filled to the brim with workers working away diligently. Other men like him sat rigidly uncomfortable in the cushioned chairs of the waiting area. Each one was in just as shoddy an outfit and with the same nervous demeanour. They were all from the same place or circumstance at least, but there was no feeling of amiability among them. They stared judgmentally at their competition, their eyes flitting around the waiting area suspiciously at who might’ve had the most crumpled suit, the dirtiest face, the worst chance. Naturally, Peter sized himself up. Though in essence they were all the same, he put himself a bit lower than all the rest, with a few more spots on his suit and creases in his shirt. But that couldn’t matter to him. He had to get the job nonetheless, no matter what. He thought of Esther. He wouldn’t fail, he simply couldn’t. Just then a woman opened one of the ornate oak doors, wearing a blouse and skirt he could only dream of buying Esther.

“Mr. Dexter, the board will see you now.” She called out before briskly walking back into the room. He sighed and picked himself up into a trembling stance, trying to hold his head a bit higher as he walked through the door.

The jeer of the crowd grew even louder as Camulos made his way nearer through the tunnels. The two guards who escorted him gripped his arms tight, especially the one which held the gladius. Perhaps it was a compliment, fearing his skill after seeing what he could do in fights previously. He only hoped that ability carried through this last time. The movement and unnerving sense of getting closer gave him a more active and rejuvenated feeling, which he felt he needed. The light brightened in the corridor and the roaring sound of the outside grew almost as loud as Camulos’s deep breathing. Before he knew it sunlight met his eyes, scattered through the bars of the iron gate, which just as quickly opened to exert the full volume of the crowd and heat of the sun as he was thrown into the dust of the arena. Already sand managed to get between him and his armour, chafing his skin as an announcer called above the incomprehensible shouting.

“And now,” Said the man’s voice booming with power. “Our most prized fighter, the legendary gladiator Camulos!”

The crowd’s unbearable volume increased, almost forcing him to look down along with the heat. As if it were a cue his opponents sprung into action, Camulos not even having seen them while his eyes were diverted to the ground. He was barely able to see their shadow launch off the ground and by even smaller chance was he able to block the incoming trident with his shield. He shoved off the invisible weight behind the shield to see the opponent stumble back. The fellow fighter, a man in scarce pads of leather armour, armed with a trident and net regained his footing and moved back slowly, letting the two other fighters take a strike at the famous Camulos. One dived at him, narrowly grazing his thigh with a gladius. Camulos kicked him back onto the dusty ground. The third man,donning heavy bronze armour and with a similar beehived helmet like himself sliced his sword down on him, cracking the shield he held it up with. In a blur Camulos launched forward and plunged his blade into the fighter’s steel mail skin. The ragged huffing which came from inside the helmet ceased. But in the heat and battle of the sun, Camulos barely acknowledged it as he pulled the sword from the body and leapt back as the two others tried to pounce on him. In an instant the one with the trident sprung into motion. Like a harpoon he threw it at Camulos, his already torn shield barely stopping the prongs from piercing his chest. In desperation he hurled his net at Camulos as well, the weights of it awkwardly wrapping around the shield and trident. Unsheathing a smaller blade from his loincloth, he ran at him. In a surge of strength Camulos hefted the amalgamated weight of his shield and threw it onto the other gladiator, knocking him to the ground as he advanced. Before his last advancing opponent was even within reach, Camulos lunged in surprise. With a quick, succinct swipe a red gash opened on the opponents throat as he fell flat onto the ground. The sound in the colosseum stopped. Camulos looked to the other figure he had thrown his shield on. The figure was lying with the clump of armament on top of him, the trident having obviously found its mark.

The crowd roared with excitement harder than ever before. Never in all his years of fighting had he heard such sounds in the arena; it was almost disorienting. He had thought he heard a murmur and a shuffle here and there around him, but the cries from faraway overpowered that tenfold. He held his head down and closed his eyes, taking it in. Free. This was to be his last one, and he did it. He was free. He looked up to the crowds,who just watched him earn his freedom as simple midday entertainment. He decided there was no reason to hate them anymore. He was free, he’d done it.

Though as he was thinking that, the sound beside him rustled louder, and a line of pain flared up on his pack. He turned around quickly with his sword raised but another met it, knocking it out of his hand. The last fighter who he had thrown his shield on slashed him again, sending him backwards. Without a blade he regained his stance to run at the gladiator but this time the sword cut him again, a perfect scarlet line across his chest. He fell down on his back, his blood now gushing at full force onto the sand. He tried to move his legs and arms, not even knowing what he’d do with them, but at that point he could hardly breath. The gladius of the other man met him, hovering an inch above him to keep him down. Camulos felt burnt in the sun and was cut all over but his head was positioned right up to look at the podium, where a distant figure stood, clad in white with laurels donning his head and seemingly staring back at him. The crowd in the rest of the seats above still burdened the arena with sound, though a different kind than before. Instead of jeers at him it was more an argument amongst themselves.

“Kill him!”

“Let him go!”

“He’s had it!”

“Kill hi-”

The white-robed man at the podium held his hand up and a stronger roar came from the audience. Camulos couldn’t see it but knew what it was too late as the blade guarding him suddenly plunged deep in his chest, and his vision went black.

Peter stood with his back against the glass wall of the board room, the men at the table all reclining in their seats with their heads turned his way. The boss sat at the very end of the table, pudgy and white haired with Peter’s resume in its battered brown file in front of him. There must have been almost fifteen businessmen there. He hoped the shaking of his foot would stop, or at least that the men at the table didn’t notice. They were all relaxed and suavely dressed, so relaxed, so opposite from him he couldn’t tell if they noticed or cared. The man at the end of the table seemed so far away he was almost hard to see for Peter, but he could make out him going through the few pages of his resume. The sole, audible flipping of the pages droned on for an eternity, but the man finally set it down and looked at Peter for the first time. He noticed his dirty suit, his sickly, waned look and tired face. But he was one of many applicants basically sibling in that appearance, so what disadvantage did he have? At the moment he thought he had shot, he really did.

“Please, Mr-,” He had to glance at the paper one more time. “Dexter. Tell us, why are you here?” It was a rhetorical question, one he caught easily. In his mind a great string of dialogue unraveled itself in his mind and it was no long jump to imagine himself in an office chair. But as his mind returned to the room a much more feeble reality took shape.

“I-I’m just here for work, sir.” He heard some grumbles and murmurs from the table but was too busy worrying to really think about what they were. It was a desperate and pitiful answer, but hopefully not below the other answers they’ve heard.

“What job specifically?” One of them asked.

“Typist.” He said more firmly than the last response, though he would take any job given.

“Typist!” One of the executives exclaimed with a bang on the table, and continued with a snarl. “It’d be impossible to sustain our budget with more workers in the current climate. We already have hundreds of typists, and even their numbers are being cut by the minute. Floor two and seven of this place? Computer banks. Floor five is coming next.” He relented a bit. ‘We need technicians, not typists, Mr. Dexter.”

Peter went cold. Nothing came to mind in rebuttal and he could only wait for one of the executives to continue. “As you can see, Mr Dexter,” Said one in a tone kind enough but almost impatient. “There are likely better places for your services to be put to use.”

“No!” His voice for once shot like iron across the room to the fat man in the suit. Everyone stared in silence. He could look at them clearly now. They looked at him clearly too, all with expressions of pity, almost disgust. Some had looks of amusement at the very far end, raising eyebrows and smiles twitching in their mouths, as if it were their only form of entertainment during these interviews. The attendant had already re-entered the room with another man ready for the interview. Just like that, his shot was gone. There was no great argument or speech, no good impressions made. He just slipped up once, and that was that. He knew it was over for him, but he was still so taken aback he fell back against a railing by the expansive window behind him. One of the men nearest to him subtly motioned for him to get out.

“N-no, no!” It was only directed at the one man at the table, but soon increased in volume to address everyone in the room. They hadn’t just turned him down at one job. They had condemned him. There was nothing else. He felt his back press against the glass as thoughts of Esther flooded his mind, and the people who just crushed those dreams he promised her sat rather comfortably in their chairs, amused at his spectacle. “It’s you, all of you!” He sputtered out before looking to the ground with his head in his palms, sputtering turned to moaning, moaning to weeping, and weeping to rash action.

“Esther…” He whimpered minutely to himself, realizing he could not go back to her. He had to get out, get out of all of it. And then to the undoubted surprises of those men at the table, his annoying whimpering was brashly replaced by a deafening crack of glass and the flooding of wind into the board room.