The bank

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RichRaccYT Aug 16, 2019

What is it even for? Like I don’t get it. I lose money when I put some in and leave it there. I just wanted to know.
Mickey Dunn Aug 16, 2019

You might think it's pointless but... wait... Nah, you're right. It's pointless.
♠️TURFA♠️ Aug 16, 2019

Stooping over his cane on the quiet, cobble street, the old man’s gaze wanders slowly across gigantic blocks of blue-grey stone, hewn from the very roots of some ancient mountain at the hands of skilled masons and the bright-eyed young lads they apprenticed. The ringing of chisels singing to the rhythmic strikes of a hundred iron hammers, the shouts, laughter and grunts of that army of stonecutters mingle in the hot, still air. Sun-bronzed backs and sweaty arms rippling with muscles born of hard labour, there is movement everywhere.

A glisten appears in the old man’s one good eye and he grunts suddenly, shakes his head and scrubs that glistening liquid quickly away with the back of a gnarled, work-hardened hand as though ashamed at the weakness that such emotion shows.

The dusty, sweaty smell of a train of oxen wafts silently through the years and the old man starts abruptly as it fills his nostrils. The lash of the driver’s whip cracks through the many years and the old man turns his head
♠️TURFA♠️ Aug 16, 2019

... just in time to start to the shrill sound of a steam whistle, signalling brew. The oxen stamp impatiently as their driver shouts obscenities at the loading crew, lazing under the only shade tree within miles, drinking from their canteens and eating their cold meat and gravy sandwiches. Loading can wait, the bank construction is ahead of schedule and they are not in any hurry to step back into that blazing sunlight.

The memories of that distant past fade as quickly as they had grown and suddenly the old man is once again there, stooped over his cane on that cobble street. Minutes after that steam whistle had blown its second melancholy shrill, signalling the end of brew, a badly struck steel chisel had slipped from below one of those heavy, iron hammers and launched faster than a bullet across the quarry, describing a graceful and deadly arc though the air. A shout had turned his head just in time to see that metallic piece of hell descending upon him and when he woke in the shade of that tree ...
♠️TURFA♠️ Aug 16, 2019

... it was nearing dark and the quarry ‘doctor’, a local veterinarian, was finishing cleaning his surgical tools.

The pain wasn’t bad, for a few moments. Then it had hit him like a raging Grizzly bear separated from her cubs. Launching furiously from the shadows of his mind it had buffeted his body like a shoalwater dingy in a howling typhoon. Unconsciousness had overtaken him quickly after that and it wasn’t until a week later that he was healed enough to find he had no use of his left eye and arm. That steel chisel had entered his body through the eye socket and whether it had flown high or he had leaned over, his left shoulder had been in the perfect position to catch it after it exited his cheek, taking with it half his jaw and any prospect of a future as a stone mason.

The second tear fell, unchecked this time. His one work hardened hand was arthritic and near useless now from many years of trying to keep up with whole men in countless labouring positions. Lonely, tired. Death was welcome now.
♠️TURFA♠️ Aug 16, 2019

I guess that old guy doesn’t like the bank either. Fuck the bank. 🖕🏻