Halted

By Simone Z Leao (aka Outer)

It was promised to be a blistering day, and the man with the clean shave had chosen his lightest suit for the interview that might change his life. Not bone, but ash white — the store clerk had insisted it was the shade of professionalism. An investment almost beyond his reach, but one he believed would mark the threshold: a passage from a lineage of earth and hands — farmers of milk and flour — into the world of white collars.

Beyond this first step, the dream was already unfurling: a suburban street, quaint white houses in duplicates, two storeys, white roses pruned and proper in their neat front gardens. The kind of place where dogs are walked on leashes and neighbours greet with smiles that mean nothing and everything. Maybe one day he could even afford the wedding dress his fiancée lingered over in the shop window near her florist’s bench.

At the central train station, he arrived early. Beneath the vast iron ribs of the hall, he craned toward the great board of departures. Then suddenly the screen dissolved into blankness. A white so absolute it erased not just the names of trains but the very idea of destination. Around him, hundreds paused, their faces mirroring his confusion, eyes fixed on the void. Seconds thickened into minutes. The lines of text did not return. They all waited, anxious, for movement to resume, for coordinates and gates to be restored, for life to be allowed its forward flow. To stand still, after all, is not a way of living.

Others — thousands of them — rushed around the stilled crowd, weaving annoyed trajectories like scribbled circles. They did not notice the white board, did not see the halted faces. Their bodies already knew the rhythm of repetition: morning paths trodden like a horse circling the ring, trained not to question.

The man in the ash white suit felt his body betray him: sweat blooming dark circles under his arms, rivulets tracing his jawline into his collar. The elegance of his garment undone by gravity, perspiration, and the faint foam of forgotten shaving cream. His thoughts raced toward ruin: a late arrival, a bad impression, rejection before even a beginning.

That same morning at the central train station, the old driver with the limp opened the narrow door to his train. Forty years he had walked this ritual. Next year he would retire — fishing, perhaps, or visiting his brother, maybe even crossing a border to where another language breathed. But not yet. For now, the tracks still claimed him, even if computers now did most of what once made him vital. He wondered: did passengers feel safer with a man at the helm, or did they secretly prefer the machines, untroubled by dreams, untouched by aging?

He remembered his first day: a manager’s voice ringing like scripture — The railway is the city’s cardiovascular system. The trains are its pulse. He pressed the switch. The console stared back at him: a blank, white screen. He could not set a course, could not start the engine, could not open the doors, could not move.

On the platform, the crowd swelled, lives suspended, each seeking meaning in motion. But today there was no going, no beyond. The driver reached for his phone, to call it in, but in his palm another white screen glowed. He left his cabin, limping toward another presence, as in earlier days when messages passed mouth to mouth. And everywhere he looked, hands clutching blank devices, faces ghost-lit by the same pale void. All the trains stood still.

A man with a clean shave and a white suit stopped him, desperation cracking his voice. He had an interview, he pleaded — he must not miss it. Around them thousands of reasons collided, each convinced it was the most urgent. They stumbled like ants whose trail has vanished, lost in spirals, hypnotised by the whiteness in their hands.

Then, as if the city’s own heart had faltered, the old driver felt the pressure in his chest, a sudden absence of breath. He collapsed onto the polished white floor, his final thought of retirement — next year — and passed into an unfulfilled darkness.

Few noticed. They were still staring into their glowing blanks. Even the man in the ash white suit, his fabric dark blotched with sweat now, walked aimlessly in the opposite direction, not knowing where, if anywhere, he was going.

About the Author

Simone Zarpelon Leao (aka Outer) is a Brazilian-born, Australia-based visual artist, designer, and writer.

Her interdisciplinary practice has been exhibited widely across Australia and internationally.

In both her literary and visual work, Outer blends ornamental richness with profound conceptual resonance through experimental processes, exploring the paradoxes of human existence: the capacity for greatness and goodness alongside the potential for cruelty and destruction.

An avid reader, her literary influences span Kafka, Saramago, Camus, Wilde, Poe, Huxley, Orwell, Atwood, and many others, reflecting a deep and enduring engagement with the complexities of human nature.

Outer can be found on Instagram @outerartstudio