The Palm Watching People
By Elinor Barriga, aged 11
"Hey!" I cried out indignantly as a huge, burly man crashed into me.
A rough, clumsy hand swept me aside with a mere grunt from the owner of it, who did not even glance up from his palm. His fingers vigorously swiped up and down and side to side.
I ducked and swerved through the silent crowd, whose glassy eyes were fixated on their clammy palms. I glanced about. Some people were being flattened against the windows of shops and crushed by the vast sea of zombie-like people.
Shafts of bright sunlight were cast down from the narrow gaps in between the looming concrete buildings. I felt uneasy as I wandered through the concrete jungle and I kept my eyes firmly fixed on the gum spattered ground. It felt like an eternity...
I burst through the doors of work, rather flustered, realising I was once again late. I slinked into my office avoiding the managers steely gaze. As uneasy as I felt, having such a steely gaze boring into me, it was sort of relieving to at least be acknowledged for the first time, after my encounter with the palm watching people on my unpleasant journey.
The words of my agitated manager filled the air, until interrupted by the eccentric receptionist tottering in, face in her palm and sloshing tea everywhere. I hastily lob my tissue box to her and she throws me a grateful smile as she wipes up the tea before yet again entering the world of her palm. I thank her for my tea and she goes out, thankfully without another line of destruction trailing behind her path. I sip at what is left of my tea and set to the days work.
After the long days work, exhausted and fed up, I set off to troop home, not ready to tolerate any nonsense. Especially, from the palm watching people.
On my way home, I feel very confined and somehow end up being shoved into some sort of supermarket, where I face an irritable shop keeper, insisting that If I come into the shop I must buy something. Too exhausted to protest, I surrender money to the persisting shopkeeper in exchange for a carton of orange juice. Reluctantly, I head back out into the street, full of people - the palm watching people.
Unfortunately for me, I come across the same burly palm watcher, once again oblivious to my presence. Towards me he comes, drifting along , his face in his palm -in his own reality. He crashes straight into me and my orange juice carton explodes on perfect cue. I slip, my arms flailing, and swiping at his palm along the way. I hear a clatter.
And there it is. The object the mans whole life seems to revolve around. What the whole world seems to revolve around. An object. It's cracked and smashed into pieces. It lays on the floor, lifeless. It was a phone.