Writing Prompt 25: Street Painting

The Whispering

Do you know the feeling of being shut out, ostracised, not quite fitting in? A new place, new people, new food, a new language. You, there, on your own. Write it down, write it down.

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They put their hands to their faces covering their mouths, their bodies bent forward in a circle.

That was when it began, the whispering. The rest of us tried to ignore them. We didn't know who they were or where they'd come from. They stood in groups of three, always gathered on a street corner, indecipherable mumblings catching in the air around them.

My father worked underground in the diamond mines. He would come home every night, his hands cut and raw, torn fingernails, grime and sweat thick on his body.

He said they were listening, reporting to the military. He said they weren't people but machines positioned each day early in the morning, rolled out of trucks and arranged before being switched on remotely.

He said they were collecting information. Data on us all.

The thought made my skin crawl. How can this be? Is this legal? I lay awake at night, the whisperings outside my window. I tried to block my mind, tried to stop my thoughts escaping through the crack in the door.

Downstairs my father would sit with his friends, drinking shots of clear liquor, slamming the table with their fists, shouting in a language I didn't understand.

Story first posted December 2019 // Photo: Street view in Seoul, James Chaytor 2019