Cosszija, Cosszka
11:39AM
The air was rank with sulphur. Smoke clouds of vibrant hues drifted lazily in the midsummer breeze. The sun was high in the sky; even before midday, its heat was oppressive, unbearable, merciless, and the gentle winds provided little solace. Perhaps it was the beautiful weather which was the main attraction of Cosszka. Upon this promise of fantastic weather, many would visit year upon year, as people are wont to do. Many fools.
The streets were lined with people, waving flags jubilantly, caught up in the celebrations of reverence and remembrance, of patriotism and nationalism. Flares burned brightly, their fizzle largely muffled by cries and chants of the vast ocean of demonstrators. For summer was not a good time to be a foreigner in Cosszka. In fact, no time of year was a good time, but none was worse than summer. When temperatures are high, so run tensions. Hatred, it is said, runs amok, for the intense heat causes old wounds to fester, and reopen.
Jaroslavl was not a happy man. He had never been. Life had been most cruel to him: he was short, gaunt of face and lithe to boot. Though young, what little hair he had was greatly thinned, and his once thick, dark mane had been reduced to an ashen mess. His eyes were close set and grey, typical of his countrymen. His lips thin, his nose sharp, many would describe his appearance as ferret-like. Others called him the shrew. Cursed with cynicism from a young age, Jaroslavl, or Jarek as he preferred, was never fortunate enough to experience joy. His story was not a sad one, but he was truly a sad man.
He rested his bony hands on the grubby window, facing out onto the street, leaning heavily against the pane of glass before him. He had barely enough energy to stand, let alone to face another sweltering day at the agency. He hated his job. He hated foreigners. In fact, he hated people - himself included. He slept little and ate less, and the result was a rather lackluster performance at his workplace. Not that he particularly cared. He gazed down onto the street before him, at the people below, but did not long to be outside. He did not long to be one of the crowd. He did not subscribe to patriotism or the joy of summer. Why were those people so happy? Why did they even bother? What was there to celebrate? He pondered for some time, before being interrupted mid-thought by the ringing of the phone.
Jarek had been alone at the office, and when normally he would be able to dodge such a call, it now fell to him to answer. He turned to face his old, tatty pine desk on which the phone sat, and begrudgingly moved towards it. Great, he thought to himself, I wonder what these fucking tourists want this time. He sighed deeply, and placed his hand on the phone. He pondered for a few moments, what’s to stop me from just ignoring it? All the while, the piercing ringing continued, serving only to annoy him further. If only that asshole manager hadn’t installed CCTV, he wished… He picked up the handset, and placed it firmly against his ear. In a deep, raspy voice, he muttered "KAT Cosszkvja, Jaroslavl speaking, how may I help you today?”. His voice was thick with the Cosszkay accent, but his English was near enough perfect - a pre-requisite of his job.
The streets were lined with people, waving flags jubilantly, caught up in the celebrations of reverence and remembrance, of patriotism and nationalism. Flares burned brightly, their fizzle largely muffled by cries and chants of the vast ocean of demonstrators. For summer was not a good time to be a foreigner in Cosszka. In fact, no time of year was a good time, but none was worse than summer. When temperatures are high, so run tensions. Hatred, it is said, runs amok, for the intense heat causes old wounds to fester, and reopen.
Jaroslavl was not a happy man. He had never been. Life had been most cruel to him: he was short, gaunt of face and lithe to boot. Though young, what little hair he had was greatly thinned, and his once thick, dark mane had been reduced to an ashen mess. His eyes were close set and grey, typical of his countrymen. His lips thin, his nose sharp, many would describe his appearance as ferret-like. Others called him the shrew. Cursed with cynicism from a young age, Jaroslavl, or Jarek as he preferred, was never fortunate enough to experience joy. His story was not a sad one, but he was truly a sad man.
He rested his bony hands on the grubby window, facing out onto the street, leaning heavily against the pane of glass before him. He had barely enough energy to stand, let alone to face another sweltering day at the agency. He hated his job. He hated foreigners. In fact, he hated people - himself included. He slept little and ate less, and the result was a rather lackluster performance at his workplace. Not that he particularly cared. He gazed down onto the street before him, at the people below, but did not long to be outside. He did not long to be one of the crowd. He did not subscribe to patriotism or the joy of summer. Why were those people so happy? Why did they even bother? What was there to celebrate? He pondered for some time, before being interrupted mid-thought by the ringing of the phone.
Jarek had been alone at the office, and when normally he would be able to dodge such a call, it now fell to him to answer. He turned to face his old, tatty pine desk on which the phone sat, and begrudgingly moved towards it. Great, he thought to himself, I wonder what these fucking tourists want this time. He sighed deeply, and placed his hand on the phone. He pondered for a few moments, what’s to stop me from just ignoring it? All the while, the piercing ringing continued, serving only to annoy him further. If only that asshole manager hadn’t installed CCTV, he wished… He picked up the handset, and placed it firmly against his ear. In a deep, raspy voice, he muttered "KAT Cosszkvja, Jaroslavl speaking, how may I help you today?”. His voice was thick with the Cosszkay accent, but his English was near enough perfect - a pre-requisite of his job.