The Edge

Arioch stands at the edge of the rocks, as close as he dares to the gravity-poisoned space beyond. It's not that he is particularly prone to vertigo or acrophobia. But his nerves scream "Get some perspective!" so that his fingers hurt as if they've been hit with a hammer. The wind, gusting, mischievous, cold, doesn't help. It makes it quite clear that it wants to fling Arioch into the void and snatch away his screams on the way down. It just can't quite work up the strength to do so.

Arioch regards the view: the objective for climbing to the edge. It's larger than he can keep in his mind at once - he turns his head from side to side to take it all in. Wind-tormented clouds scud across the sky, bringing spitting rain, lances of sunlight and staccato shadows. The sky is kept aloft by brown-sided mountains, their jagged tops still splashed white with snow. Below the edge the rocks sweep down to a scree slope partially covered in dun tussock grass and bramble thickets. To the left a swift stream chooses today's path amid its grey-bouldered alluvial fan, expanding into a rushy mere and swamp before disappearing off behind another slope to the right. There are ducks.

The wind tries to tear the air from Arioch's mouth and nose so he can't detect the coldness and flinty hint of snow on its breath, but fails. Arioch inhales deeply, enjoying the freshness turning so very cold. It has better luck with his unprotected eyes, finding moisture in them to drag out and spatter on Arioch's cheeks with its icy claws.

Arioch grimaces into the wind to show he is not afraid of it. In disgust it flings a hawk past him, feathers ruffling in its grip. The hawk meets Arioch's gaze with one exultant yellow eye: it also plays with the wind.

File pending

At night after even the cleaners have left, the forgotten clerks creep out of their filing cabinet hidey-holes and go to work through the office. They do not make much sound any more: a witness might hear the careful rustle of paper on paper, a cardigan sleeves brushing blotters, or pencil erasers tapping teeth. Their voices are whispers and they express themselves in passive hypotheticals. They do not disagree except in silences, which in some cases can last for months.

The light from the emergency globes and from logon screens from computers left turned on paint their pallid skins with ghostly hues. Some of them are so tentative in their work they are actually translucent. They do not cast shadows: they do not have seniority for that since the new workplace agreement went through. They work quietly and constantly during the dark hours adding to, multiplying, the paperwork left by the day workers.

They do not like each other particularly well but during the day, when the day-workers fill the office with noise and chaos, they gather together in the dark corners of the cabinets as close together as they can. They almost touch.

After seven hours and twenty-one minutes each they pile up their unfinished paperwork and sign off. They slink back to their cabinets and fall asleep before they can remember how they came to be like this.