Young Writers Society

1: ROLAND

The sun shined through the blinds; an illustrious beam which begged to be noticed. No surprise, then, that the sun got its wish, as Roland stirred awake from his sleep, put on his socks, and went downstairs for a spot of breakfast.

Roland had an iris of fire, always fixed on an object in a borderline obsessive manner. His noir hair- always a scruff in the morning- gave away to all employees that he was a Jew, with a fine selection of clothes and items.

Although not practicing, Roland kept a degree of his faith, mainly to aid his survival for that particular day. His mind was always on fast forward, and felt that he never had time to complete the simplest of tasks. It was no use for him to finish his toast because in ten minutes he had to be out of the house, an impressive building which children viewed as a castle. Roland had no time for anything- not even a quick chat with the local vicar, let alone time to commit to anyone. 

Of course, he had requests left, right and centre to commit, most probably from his mother, who lived about half an hour away in walking distance.

Roland's father was another traditional and- dare Roland even think it- conservative fellow, who insisted on reminding Roland about marriage and grandchildren. To quote his father, "you are running on borrowed time, Roland!"

Roland had no knowledge of the future, and very little of his past. He refused to believe in the absurdity of looking forward if looking backwards did no favours to the individual. Roland's knowledge of the past had been dictated to him, by pictures and drawings he allegedly drew of his family when he was too young to hold a crayon properly. He was an individual of such paranoia that he developed a sceptical, cynical train of thought that attempted to derail any memory he had as false. 

In short, Roland refused to believe he had had any experience other than the current one.

Nobody could have blamed him. Roland was portraying an existence with such repetition and boredom that it was easy to assume it was his only day existing. His geographical position, the town of Emerald Grove where a bus arrives every ninety minutes, did not exactly aid the predicament. After all, the area was mainly retired, but Roland felt as if he had to stay; for his mum, his dad, and for his job. His workplace, an office complex in Terrace Gardens, an area of financial significance in London, was, to some degree, within his reach by an outdoor train and two indoor trains. Seeing how he had to time the bus and the train- which was also temperamental though not in the same way, say every half an hour- it was no surprise all of this resulted in a sheer assault on Roland's memory. 

The question of whether or not he decided all of this in the first place, would have probably remained a question to the outsider's eye. It was rather convenient that, either way, Roland had given in and was now keeping up with the time. Literally.

So, Roland's main priority was to get onto the single-floored, scarlet-coloured bus, which would determine his ascension to live another day working for his job, or lead him to a redundancy guaranteed to wreak chaos, and- most vitally- rejection from his mother. As for the issue regarding his father's reaction to his only son's unemployment, the thought of puffed cheeks, red eyes and a blazing temper forced Roland to shudder. 

Roland was not used to this, or even fathomed it. After all, he refused to believe anything would happen involving his parents' rejection. He never experienced anything of the sort in his lifetime, so naturally would not and could not anticipate the heavy blow that paternal rejection would bring.

In short, Roland was new to this world, though his age of thirty-nine certainly did not show this fact to any degree. Roland’s hands were sweating and clammy, clinging on to his briefcase as if his life depended on it. Last minute checks for his bus fare fed his paranoia; twenty glances at his watch satisfied his insecurity. Once the bus pulled up- the gateway to his private heaven- Roland straightened his tie, as if the bus driver, with a stern, curt face of steel, would kick him off for a lack of etiquette. Roland’s self consciousness and his want to impress other people would ultimately become his downfall, but it seemed to humour him. That was the main thing, after all.