First day of summer

The loud engine of a performance motorbike woes past like a rocket and I am brought back to the wooden bench in the middle of Viktoriapark. First day of summer. I pick up my empty bottle and resume the endless trek around the streets of Berlin.

I live a most simple life these days – me and my shopping trolley – collecting beer bottles and cans left around by merry tourists and locals. Business has been moving slow lately, as the war to the east intensifies and prices go up as a result. Not like it was hard enough before. I grip around the endless void in my pocket and realise I have a lot of work to do if I am to make it into the shelter tonight. 

The first day of summer marks the date of the last time I saw my son. If I can make a few bucks before the sun goes down, I might get one of the few sockets to charge my old Nokia and give the old family a call. It’s all about the little things, and today, things might be looking up. The Karneval der Kulturen is happening, bringing hundreds of thousands out to play, each one of them with a beer or two in hand – a poor man’s Christmas day.

*

The streets are overwhelmed with a boastful crowd of bright costumes and loud grins applauding to the tempo of adorned drumskins. I can feel my heart palpitating amid the humongous masses, skipping to the beat that compliments the ticking and tacking of the glass bottles filling my shopping trolley to the brim. I navigate it nervously through a crowd that hasn’t a worry in the world: a large woman arguing with the cook on how to cook her sausage; a boy clinging on to a lamp post with all his might to get a glimpse of the carnival go past. I can feel my heartbeat intensifying to the tempo of the approaching act as I edge closer to one of the city’s recycling centres. As I come outside after collecting my pay, the drums intensify to a frantic tempo, matching my scrambled thoughts. I move through the crowd as if in a trance, observing the moving masses whilst looking inward. 

I finally arrive at the local shelter. I also happen to know that this same shelter neighbours the kafé selling the cheapest beer in town. The marching drums edge closer as the carnival’s main act approaches, urging a decision out of me, step by step. I grab the silver locket from around my neck and open it with my sweaty palms. My son’s image glistens against the sun on the birthday of his death. Not one person I know has set an eye on me since. The marching drums come to a blistering climax and it all finally stops. The mob explodes in ecstasy; I take a deep breath, leave my empty trolley behind and put my right foot forward. 

Guidelines (500 words or less):

Your story must begin in the MIDDLE of something. Your story must include the words ROCKET, POCKET, SOCKET and LOCKET. (You can use longer words – e.g. ROCKETING or SOCKETS – as long as they retain the original spelling within them.)