FICLET: "Sitting on a Chair"
SERIES: Nr. 5 of the Boring!Orli storyverse. Back to nr. 4.
Author: Lobelia; [email protected]
Pairing: Orlando Bloom / parcel
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Orli sat on a chair. It was a wooden chair, with wooden armrests, but the wood on the seat, back and armrests was padded with green chequered chintz. The chintz had a cigarette burn toward the front of the seat and was in general quite sweat-stained.
Next to the chintz-covered chair, there stood three other identical chintz-covered chairs, arranged in a line along the wall. Across from Orli, a similar line of chairs stood impassively. A young man with hennaed hair and a bandana round his neck sat on the extreme left one. He was leafing through a magazine titled 'Home and Away'. It had a picture of a man in a chunky Norwegian jumper on the cover, holding a hunting hound by the scruff of its neck. The issue was three months out of date. Above the man's head, a poster advised readers to 'Quit smoking now!' Above the poster, there hung a laminated announcement, printed out in point 20 bold New Times font: 'If you have to miss an appointment, please contact the surgery! Appointments save lives!'
Orli stuck his hand in the right-hand waist pocket of his leather jacket. He pulled out the now-crumpled and torn-open pack of tissues. He pulled out a wad of used tissue; it was drenched in blood and grit. The man opposite lifted his head from 'Home and Away' and looked at the tissue. Orli gave him an apologetic smile and dropped the tissue in a plastic, orange-coloured bin. He sat back down and pulled out the last item in his right waist pocket: the small, rectangular parcel, covered in brown paper, smeared with blood.
"Here, take this!" the woman with the bleeding arm had said, her eyes wide with fear as the first sirens wailed up the road towards the supermarket of horror. "Take it, take it! Take it to that address and, whatever you do, don't let the police get it!"
She then gave one last gasp, stood up and ran into the supermarket. Police cars mounted the kerb. Their blue lights flashed, their sirens oogled, their exhausts spewed forth monoxide. "Put your hands on your head and lie on the ground face down!" came a voice through a megaphone.
Orli put the packet in his pocket, put his hands on his head and lay face down.
"I will hand this parcel over to the police." But then his eyes caught sight of his wristwatch. The watch read 'twenty-five past one'. Oops, better hurry! Orli looked left, Orli looked right. Orli crawled away round the corner, stood up, brushed his hands against his jeans and walked off toward the surgery.
Which was where he now was.
In the surgery.
With a mysterious parcel that appeared to be on the most-wanted list of the municipal police force as well as of a bunch of criminal, shotgun-wielding types in black suits.
Orli looked at the parcel. The blood-smudged texta note on the outside read, '16 Blue Moon Close.'
That was all.
Blue Moon Close. "Strange."
That's where Dom lived.
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TBC
21 June 2003
The story continues in nr. 6: Thinking about Things.
Back to nr. 4: Taking a Walk.
All original parts of this story: © Lobelia
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