The Factory Boy

A Story by Hadvvl

An abstract short story touching on the corruption of the current school system in the eyes of a factory boy and his daily events

Another day goes by with a blimp over his head, a crude cloud that haunts him with the hope that the factory is either robbed or burnt to its last breath; another day goes by with the only change in his attire is the growing rustic stains and dust adorning his fabric. He can count it on his fingers! The years of each week: 11 years (having skipped 2) where he sprung off the bed and heard his neighbour singing lullabies in the morning on the other side of the spectrum, the neighbour was brought up drastically different than the boys at the factory �" the other side of the coin you might say. 11 years where he took the same bus to the glass factory �" all the experienced staff with no effort to fix the broken mirror at the driver's seat �" no wonder it rained every passing day. The journey was stale, sure it was! Using his yellowing fingertips with filthy fingernails to button up his top and fix the tip of the wigens cap that allayed on his decaying skeleton. His head against the glass, a thought for each bump the bus drove over until they reached their destination.

Surrounded by his friends between torn chestnut wood and muddy machines once more; male friends of course! As his female companions were to join years later, howbeit he did not live long enough to see his coloured lads, for although the moonlight clung to the leaves of the orchard that stood firm at the factory’s entrance, the scent of its lemons grew bitter until they could not walk the same path for centuries to come. They tipped their hats at each other, engaged in small talks about last night’s dinner and exchanging pleasant smiles to mask the hatred for this space, unaware of the power they possess that might change their lives in the blink of an eye.

The wind sifted through the fog to ring a din high enough to awaken dogs, hoping it would startle him and his coworkers out of their walking slumber. It was as though the dry, un-engaging palette of their surroundings have put them to sleep �" shoved them in one safe corner and had their neurons loop the chemical pattern of thought to leach on job security �" it was also not the only loop they were stuck in, the production process of the glass has been the same long before their aloof behaviour came to be, If the wood was to have a soul in its pores it would warn the students with every splinter it gave unconsented about the corruption in their environment. They stood in lines, paired parallel to each other and stared lifelessly at the wardens for another day trying to absorb something that will cling to dear life in their mind but walked out of the glass factory with a hollow skull and a smooth brain.

“I'm Mr Horace and you will call me as such” Ironically, the wardens demanded respect more than anything else, they dressed in their best vetements grasping a ruler and looked down on their students. They failed to look past the girth of the factory, discouraging discussion amongst the children regarding the industrialization of the system. Each boy carved a piece synchronizing with each other, Mr Horace named this mindless movement “workflow” and every semester he would change a thing or two to create an illusion for their parents. While our boy shaped his translucent vase, the glistening clarity of the piece reminded him of a not-so-fond memory, when one of his mates came with a sweater that covers the uniform their students wear to shield himself from the scalding winter weather and he was dragged out by his ears never seen in the factory again; they never understood due to the pyramid of hierarchy, how unfortunate was it that the man who sat atop with a stomach to his knees was hungry for power rather than polishing an already strong foundation, Mr Horace �" at the top of the pyramid called it “organizational structures” that each one must work towards reaching the top.

“rot your school years, rot your college years then die working for someone else” it’s not exactly how they phrased it: the middle class and the wardens; having minds as narrow as the lead in their pencils, they never recognized why some of their adolescents refused to cooperate with such system - why the older each of them grew, the education they received never sufficed; perhaps it was the morally depraved foundation hidden from them, but no matter how many vowels were drawn on their cards, none grew confident of what happens when they become in charge of their lives rather than in the hands of well-dressed wardens, what might happen after the fragile years at the factory, the art of it all! A painter without their brush, a writer without their pencil, and a student without stimuli. They all can replace the missing pieces in their professions, but the foundation - the primary faulty palette would make it unbearably difficult to adapt to their future lifestyle . So the factory boy attempts to move on without his tools, unprepared and uneducated to what life after this one holds.