Short story: Out The Gate, by Robbie Siataga

Fala sat nervously as the standard round of workshop introductions neared. Everyone’s so far had been decidedly normal. He didn’t want to be here. But he needed to get out of his head more, and even just out. A Writer’s Room seemed as good an excuse as any.
Fala gave it the once over, eyeing up a double packet of choccy bikkies to rack. The assorted hairstyles, clothing, footwear, gender, age and ethnicity reflected who these people were or wanted to be. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. He wasn’t like them.
Brown skin, wild graying hair, faded, almost imperceptible blue fist tattoo on his cheek, missing front teeth, grey trackies, retro sports hoodie, black slides over white socks, Lo-jacked anklet. Fala hated the man in the mirror and hoped to find something to love and live for again, or even just smile about. He tuned back in.
The 40 something, pale-faced Maori lady with the big silver-streaked hair and moko kauae did a pepeha, harking back to her mountain, river and iwi. Sure, she had a muffin top, but Fala still reckoned he’d hit it. Beggars can’t be choosers.
The 30-something year old ginga with the clean fade, hipster beard, red checked shirt, and sensible shoes said he’d moved down from Palmy with his fiancé and was in I.T. They were expecting their first child. The admission drew a muted round of applause. Fala thought this pussy wouldn’t last a day behind the wire.
A fake cough broke the silence. With all eyes on him, Fala stood and spoke without thinking. “If I was to say aggravated burglary, perverting the course of justice and prison sentence, what would you think?”
Everyone squinted and leaned in. A few stroked their chins.
“Probably the worst and you’d be sort of right, but not even. Why’s that?”
Some skinny young guy in a vintage black t-shirt emblazoned with a red Anarchy sign, ripped jeans and 14-hole Doc Martin’s shouted “Conditioning”, then laughed. Everyone else shot him a withering look. He blushed. As one they all looked back at the guy dressed like a clichéd homeless extra from Once Were Warriors.
“Ackshully,” he said, “it was a rhetorical question but, yeah, conditioning. Did anyone think maybe trumped-up police charges, racist justice system, dodgy insurance claims and false accusations by an old rich prick?”
He paused for a second. The silence was deafening. He could hear the roar of blood in his ears, feel the pounding pulse of his heart. The voice in his head said he’d fucked this up.
“Yeah nah, me neither. Haha.” His stilted laugh drew no response. “Talofa, I’m Fala and recently got out of prison for…Ahh fuck it. Doesn’t matter,” he said, before buggering off to the toilet, then out the gate; smiling with a packet of choccy bikkies in his pocket.

Next week’s short story is by Jenna Heller and is even shorter than Robbie’s very short short story (244 words).