The Sunday Story

Imagine your own damn food.
Here we are again, after a week of negligable posting I feel kind of bad. Truth is, I’ve had Fallout 3, Far Cry 2 and the Left 4 Dead demo to keep my occupied. That should have kept my occupied, but of course I had even more on my plate than usual. I had that piece of coursework for Uni to hand in, I’ve had another to hand in for the workshop seminar and I’ve had work. So yeah, my posting has been kind of crap this week, but with good reason, I guess. I’m going to try and change that, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to  maintain my post-a-day that I had been doing for the last few months.

Anyway, here is the Sunday Story. Because of my utter boredom with real life at the moment, it’s going to be rather fantastical. I’m not quite sure exactly how fantastical or even what form the fantasy will take, but it sure as hell isn’t going to be about playing games, writing essays or bothering shoppers.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

His parents named his Constance, perhaps out of some cruel jest at his sexuality or maybe just out of ignorance. The problem was, he didn’t suit it at all. He was possibly the most erratic person in his circle of friends. Perhaps the only constant about him was the fact that he refused to adhere to any sort of pattern. Method in madness, order in chaos, all that jive.

So there he stood, fingers drumming a tattoo on his thigh as he tried to think about which type of food he wanted to take from the conveyor belt this time. It was all the same processed rubbish really, with arguably a slightly different taste in each. A few of his friends swore by one particular flavour, but he just let the mood take him, and it often took him on ultimately dissapointing taste adventures. With a sigh he grabbed the next one to pass him and deposited it on his tray, moving over to the table.

“Eww… what the feck did you grab the chicken for? It smells like piss.” As he sat he sighed, yet again annoyed by the tribal nature of his friends. Did it really matter that much? It was just a bloody food bar. He peeled back the wrapper and glanced up.

“I felt like something different, you know? I mean, we never eat the chicken.”

“That’s because it smells like piss.” Josh had a point.

“Fine, I won’t get the fucking chicken again. You happy?” There was a trace of boredom and frustration in his voice.

“Considerably. Now eat it quickly before the other tables think we all just wet ourselves.” Constance nodded and gobbled down the bar, washing the taste away with the water, putting on a grimace just so his friends would believe his vow not to get the flavour again.

As the afternoon slowly began it’s crawl towards evening, a creeping unsettlement came over Constance. He wasn’t sure why it was there, or even what it was trying to unsettle him about, but there was definitely something amiss. He glanced up from his desk, the glare of the screen leaving an imprint on the backs of his eyelids, making him blink. The warm, moon-like face of his employer, Sharma, leered over him.

“I need those T-22s in by 4, Conny. You know how Mr. Lake doesn’t like to be kept waiting with his reports.” The thick Indian accent made everything Sharma said a little comical, like a parrot imitating words; they just didn’t sound right.

“I’ve almost done them Sharma. They’ll be on your desk.” A hand slipped through his hair, trying to take his exhaustion with it.

“You see that they are Conny. I don’t want to have to caution you again.” Constance’s eyes closed slowly, holding back his frustration at the nickname. It was enough that his parents had named him after a girl, but using another girl’s name as a nickname was too much. He stood.

“Sharma, I don’t like to be called that. You know this. I’ve told it to you every day for the last four months. Now please, stop calling me it.” Sharma bristled, his arms folding as his brow furrowed.

“Look here Conny. I’ll call you what ever the damn hell I please! Because I’m your boss!” Sharma’s voice escalated as he spoke, until it reached an uncomfortable pitch, raising the attentions of everyone else in the room.

Constance took a deep breath. The unsettlement had risen to a white hot fury, boiling up inside him like a submarine; always there but hidden. He grabbed his keyboard, wrenching it out of it’s plugs before swinging it full force at his supervisor’s face. The keys went flying, dancing with the droplets of blood as they sailed through the air, flying in an adverse trajectory to that of Sharma, who crumpled in a heap on the floor, hands clutching his face.

Tucking the shattered keyboard under his arm, Constance wandered out of the room, whistling a dischordant tune. The unease that had plagued him for the day had evaporated, leaving in it’s wake a wondrous contentment.

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About Phill Cameron

I've graduated, had a look at the world, and spat. Now I'm devoting my time to moving from 3/4 of a games journalist to 9/10ths. I figure I can get away with 9/10ths.
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