Kaili Brand
Questionable Hobo Tactics Specalist
Header Art Credit:
Docking Station 1.4/4 by Roman Ingatowski.
https://www.artstation.com/artwork/14BD3
https://www.artstation.com/artwork/14BD3
Prelude:
Oh, but it is dirty!
-This little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil...permeated
to a disturbing, over all
black translucency.
“Be careful with that match!”
Father wears a dirty,
oil soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him...
It is a family filling station
...all quite thoroughly dirty.
Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps and on it
a set of crushed and grease impregnated wicker work
on the wicker sofa a dirty dog,
quite comfy.
Some comic books provide the only note of color
(of certain color)
they lie upon a big dim doily draping a taboret
(part of the set)
beside a big hirsute begonia.
Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the the doily?!?
Embroidered...in daisy stitch with marguerites,
(...I think,)
and heavy with grey crochet.
Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant
(...or oils it, maybe.)
Somebody arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
ESSO-SO-SO-SO
to high strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.
Filling Station - Elizabeth BishopKaili sat quietly against the wall of the space port, back stiff with discomfort as he hunched over his little cardboard sign and gazed passed the throngs of people who glided by him, either not noticing him or pretending they hadn’t. He was long accustomed to this, Shuttle Port Pronga was not the best of places on Axxila, deep in the bowels of the huge city-planet as it was. It was neither clean, nor secure, nor even that well maintained. But it was operational, albeit just barely, discreet and, for what little it mattered, cheap.
It may have once been a beautiful open sky port, if the domed ceiling and faded duracrete frescos were any indication. But those days were long past, the open spaces that had once allowed ships to come to rest were built over in an endless layer cake of durasteel and the only vibrant splashes of color came not from frescos but miss splotches of graffiti missed by lazy power washer droids. The long, twisting singular shaft to the surface (barely wide enough to accommodate most freighters) echoed its defiant groans into the station as ships drifted cautiously down it, the weight of their repulsors agitation its rust coated length. A wretched, elderly thing too often packed with traffic and too cramped between the ever expanding bulk of a city planet to be reworked.
An Ithorian spared a glance between him and his mangled advertisement before hurrying away, causing the young man to sigh and flip the sign over. Reading it again would change nothing, he knew that, but it was something to do other than sitting and waiting for a job. “Shep Repaiarz. 150 credeetz oop front. 50/hoor ahfta. Tranzzit or fud equi-v-a-lent akepted. Partz at on expeenze” It read, in jagged hurried letters. His handwriting was much better than the horrid chicken scratch would suggest, as was his grasp on written basic. But older grifters had suggested he try and look like he could be cheated. It made him look like less of a threat and brought in more customers. In theory, anyway.
Hopefully he could get something today, his food supplies had dried up two days ago and walking deeper into the Under City to scavenge parts on an empty stomach didn’t really appeal to him. Especially when it did not guarantee he’d get enough credits from the haul to pay for more than just a days worth of meals. “Well...Back to it then...” He grumbled to himself, reluctantly turning the sign back around for the world to bask in its frail glory.
[member=Jyoti Nooran]
