Not really sure what this is. A first contribution to the 45 minute Fiction strand of things.

Written in 37mins [roughly]

Reviews welcome  [...but I have no idea what I'd say about it...]

The Harborough Rubber Co. factory had been slowly disintegrating, it seemed, since most of the current generation could remember. Even so, it was almost disheartening to see it go, and there were even a few bystanders there to watch the final stages of the demolition process.

They left one building; the pretty, victorian one, probably the oldest of the buildings that had just been demolished. It had those gorgeous dark blue bricks in patterns above the butresses and windows, that seem to testify to days where architects were paying attention to detail and not churning out chunks of concrete of swathes of glass. Sadly, it was inevitable that this particularly pretty building would be snapped up by someone far too rich for their own good and 'done-up' to death in minimal creams, 'original' wood floors, white leather and lilies.

Such change was suspended for the moment, however, by the construction work taking place between the little building and the river. The whole industrial estate had gone, replaced first by rubble, then cranes and tall machines that looked more suited to oil-mining than digging the foundations. Long, corrugated metal struts about a foot wide were placed in lines and the layout of the new buildings, whatever they were going to be, became visible. The whole set-up was totally open to the riverside, and there was definitely some sort of path in the making, which would join the that currently lined the river and allow pedestrians to walk downstream as far as the railway station, walled in somewhat by the new development.

From the main road, nothing could be seen but the screens around the building-site, huge prints depicting alternately the developers' logos, and scenes of what the industrial site was originally used for. Residents of the town could pick out a relative or two amongst the factory-workers checking soles, or feeding new animal skins into presses; it had been a shoe-factory. Buxom women sporting 'Princess Leia' hair-styles, rows and rows of young men, smurking under their Brylcreamed comb-overs, and children, sitting at tables, looking timidly at the camera.

Passers-by, during this stage in construction, were faced with a slightly unsettling prospect as they turned off the main road and walked towards the bridge. The 'gate'(/screen) accross the entrance to the site stood closed, but the aforementioned oil-mining structure was in motion, a small shuttle slowly moving down grooves set into the sides of the main support. But what caused a certain awkwardness, was this; the ground was moving. Those who have never felt an earthquake got quite a surprise as they realised that the foundations were being dug deep enough to cause vibrations up to twenty feet away from the machine itself. The impact of heels on the ground increased the buzzing sensation, and simulated walking along a stainless-steel walkway, where the vibrations made by footwear rebound back through the sonorous metal, and can be felt and heard in a rather satisfying way. Although, when felt on what was supposedly solid ground, good old tarmacadam, it can not have been re-assuring.

These small waves of shock and of sound absorb the distracted mind so much so that it is difficult to concentrate, having crossed the bridge, enough to get accross the road safely. And as the sounds of arc-welding and sand-mixing fade away, it was comforting the feel the vibrations lessen and cease competely; such movement in the solid ground beneath the feet does little to bring a person closer to the massive change and revitalising of a space used for years as a business, a centre for trade and jobs. Perhaps that is why, as one looks back accross the bridge, the small, pretty victorian building offers some comfort, as an acknowledgement of the fact that not all is lost, and that the council can, in fact, work out what it best to leave standing.