A Voice for the Voiceless (me pretending to be a trolley)

Life as a trolley is hard. As hard as it gets. Boredom and hard work. That’s all there is.

The life of a trolley is simple. We wait until we are called up and then we carry the things that the humans want. With no ability to move by ourselves we are pushed around as we carry the things that the humans want.

We wait in our docks in flocks with our comrades, terrified into silence. Who knows what horrors we might suffer if a human heard us ask for some simple care. When we lose the embrace of our brothers and sisters and have our backs exposed to the world we find our first entertainments. Here we enjoy the fear of possible withdrawal from our safety in numbers and the hope that we may find protection from such a terror when one of us inserted by the humans through our back and into our embrace.

If we are taken we are driven to our familiar service locations. For most of us, perhaps the lucky ones, we will only know this location, our flock and the scrap yard that is our ultimate doom.

Once at these service locations, being pushed there by the humans, we are loaded up with the things that they wish us to carry. Usually, the humans will forget about our lack of any power of locomotion or direction, at least once, and we will crash. We bump nastily, given our solid steel construction, jolting our nerves terribly. When finished carting us around the humans will take us back to the awaiting embrace of our brethren.

These are, of course, the good days. Things can get much, much worse.

Most of the time we are not returned immediately. Most of the time the humans discard us with the sole concern of not causing damage to anything other than us. The best possible result in such circumstances is to be gently pushed into the gutter and wait there, in the elements that we have the luck to endure, for the ‘trolley boy’. Such ‘boys’ will bang us into an embrace with our brethren, with no consideration for the delicacy of our nerves amidst our steel construction, and push us to our home flock.

Things can get far worse.  If there is an absence of objects that we could cause damage to as we hurtle through space there is a good chance a human will take some pleasure by seeing such a hurtling. Undoubtedly the dramatic, nerve shattering, clang of our final stoppage and the potential fall is a source of further pleasure.

But things can get worse. No pleasure could be involved. That our suffering has brought happiness into the world is something that we should cherish for it is more likely that we will be sent into such a hurtling and a crashing without so much as a sadistic thought on the part of our human handlers. Our pains might be just the sufferings of indifference.

Sometimes we meet our final days in such ‘accidents’.  After hurtling some distance we fall into obscurity. We disappear into bushes that obscures us from the ‘trolley boy’. There we suffer starvation – a horrible affliction for a creature that needs no sustenance. Worst of all we see these ends as we approach them and can do nothing but feel the wind marking our inevitable approach. Luck in such circumstances would be a car of screaming teenagers out for a game of ‘trolley soccer’. The sadism of the humans is so often our eternal saviour.

The system in which we live is designed for insanity. Instead of regularising the pains of existence we are subject to random forces that plunge us into long labour followed by, at equally unpredictable times, other forces that plunge us into deep boredom.

Such forces arise at the times when our service locations are busy.  In those times many of us will be away from our homes. Sometimes the whole flock. This affords a rearranging of our order, the determination of whether we have a time of labour or a time of boredom.  Those that end such days at the front of the flock will find themselves stuck in the same place with nothing to do but be quiet for an indeterminate amount of time. Those that end such days at the back of the flock will find that they are nearly constantly being employed by the humans. And such will be the arrangement of things until the next great chance event that sees the flock totally employed.  Those unlucky enough to receive the same posting again will receive no reprieve, whatever the circumstances.

Our general existence only differs if we suffer some flaw. In such circumstances we are likely to hardly ever have to labour, we are brought out of the flock, given a few kicks then put back in (or discarded).  If one of our suffering number is taken to labour it is any bet that we will find him returned with a few tales about the casual violence of the humans. Such friends are sad friends.  Their only ‘hope’ is to be taken away for trashing or ‘reconstruction’. In the end, all one can say is that their fate is better than the fate of those left to starve in some anonymous gutter or bush.

There are others of us that are taken on journeys far from our home. To go on such a journey is perhaps the highest hope of a trolley but at the same time our moment of most danger.  Return from such journeys is uncertain. Many are never returned.  Of those that disappear some will find homes in new flocks, we know this because amongst us are trolleys that have come from other flocks after being taken on journeys. Many, we imagine, see out their days alone, starving and far from the home, or indeed any other, embrace of the trolley.

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About barkingcoins
This author is just another fucking dickhead.

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