It’s that time again. And I know I didn’t write anything yesterday or the day before, but I was in London. I’ll get around to writing something about it soon. Maybe even tonight if I don’t succumb to Far Cry 2. Anyway, here is the Sunday story. I didn’t really feel like the zombie thing that was requested, but I hope this will suffice. I rather like it.
The cursor blinked at him, indignant in its pertinence. Something must be written, and it was the very tool that would carry out that task. With a sigh his fingers hovered over the keyboard, desperate to sink down those few inches and regurgitate the ideas that would get him paid and out the door. Resigned, he brought his hands to his face and buried it there.
“Brian, I wanted that report by three. Have you even started it yet.” Looking up he glanced over his shoulder, faced with the dozen chins that adorned Ida, his supervisor’s, neck. He closed his eyes ever so softly, letting the image of her face slip away.
“Yes Ida, I’m just doing it. I’m just not sure that the report can be done how you asked. It just doesn’t seem to… flow, very well.” Her eyebrow had raised at his hesitation, and she retreated her head in such a way as to convey her opinions expertly. She wasn’t impressed.
“Just get as much done as you can, and I’ll be back at three to see how you’re getting on. You should definitely be well away by then… you’ve got what.. half an hour?” The corners of her mouth retreated to form a forced smile, and he mirrored it, feeling sick as he did. As she sauntered away he took another deep breath and brought his hands over the keyboard again. The cursor blinked.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get the report done; it was pertinent to the deadline. It was just that she had asked him to do it in such a haughty and derogatory way that even though he wanted to get it done, his mind just wasn’t letting him start. There was some shred of self-respect, some residual pride in him that hadn’t quite been eked out yet, and it was putting up a fight.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginnings of a headache set in. It always happened when he was fighting against himself, and it would mean he would be able to get even less work done. Popping open a bottle of aspirin, he took four and turned back to the screen.
Just start. Get it over and done with, write those first few words and then the rest will follow. It had happened many times before, and it would happen many times again. He just had to push himself off the cliff and the resulting freefall would have him done. His fingers moved down an inch, barely a hair’s breadth from the plastic keys. He could almost hear the clatter of them in his mind. He was going to be able to do it, he would start the report and be done by four. Then he could go home and lose himself in the latest instalment of his favourite show. He took in a deep breath, holding it as he prepared to dive in at the deep end.
As the air slipped past his lips he sunk his face back into his hands. A tear welled up in his right eye, more out of frustration than anything else. He had no idea what the problem was, but he just couldn’t get the work done. Deciding to think of it another way, he began to focus on the positives of getting the report done; he would be able to go home. He wouldn’t have Ida bearing over him. He wouldn’t have the Deadline hanging on his shoulder. Yes, the report must be done. His hands moved to the keys, resting lightly on the ebony buttons. The first word was tentatively written.
Another followed, a sentence was formed. Soon, a paragraph sat proudly on the page, ready to father its way to an entire essay. The corners of Brian’s mouth began to curl a little, turning into a smile as his fingers span over the instrument, the clatter of the keys barely distinguishable as individual strokes as paragraph after paragraph adorned the screen. As the break in the page started to move upwards, he took a deep breath, a sigh of relief. The headache began to dissipate, leaving him with an odd sense of satisfaction.