Nonsense

The following is a story that I wrote for some contest. I'm hoping to get cash out of it. As I've mentioned previously, writing contests are like prostitution, but with words.
Originally, I was not going to allow you guys to read it, because I know that there would be some resentment about my implications. I changed my mind, however, because 1) In the technology department, I doubt there's much interest in reading. 2) No one looks at this thing anyway. and 3). Putting it on here without directly informing someone then requires someone to randomly check it in order to find this thing, so I can claim that I was not withholding it.

Warning: This is deeply disturbing and very much open to interpretation. If you want your brain to remain unmolested, stop reading now.





I've long wondered if it would be prudent to place in these pages a pseudonym for myself. I've since realized that I-me, oh clever me!- have no need for a pseudonym. I've barely a real 'nym.' I am nameless, faceless. And I have no fear. I no longer need to worry about prying eyes on forbidden words, I leave them vainly, proudly, as my legacy. I have sent these words to you... but it is merely an excerpt, a brief flash into my mind. Merely an excerpt from the diary of a cubicle drone.

Augtober fifteenth-ieth.
"A thunderous silence fills my empty head." No good. It seems that all the entertaining ways to string together words taste bitterly of cliché. Or, perhaps words, by their very nature, reek of cliché, no matter how original their assembly may be. Pointless. There are not words adequate to describe my day today. Perhaps these non-existent words can display my non-existent life for a non-existent crowd in my non-existent future. I imagine that these words are doubly delicious, but I am stuck within the confines of language. Stark black lines on a page of silk. Ah, I live now, dreary now, with my cheery company, reds and blues and purples, in his glass cage, perfectly content. How relaxing and pleasant it must be. Thomas II the betta is the one freedom that I enjoy in my own foam and fabric cage. Endlessly sad that I live through my fish, that I envy my fish.

Septovember eleventeenth
This is how life is supposed to work: Public education through age 18. College through age 22. From then on, find a good job. Breath, work, live, until 65 or perhaps older depending on your personal poisonous profession. Oh, so sorry. I've injected a word in there that is totally my own bias. My apologies, diary. Then, retirement. But what if life isn't supposed to work that way? I'm partway through Phase Three, and I can't say that I'm particularly impressed. Surely mankind has not labored through evolution for this. How utterly disappointing.

Marchuary sixty-fourth
The desks are short. Unnaturally short. It perhaps coincides with the man who entered my working space today. I've never spoken to him while standing. Perhaps this is the short big boss man's chance to tower over others physically as he does with his superiority complex. My brain, trapped in its skull-shell, begins to writhe in agony the moment I hear him speak. For this reason, it's been about...Hmm. I don't know how long it's been since I've done anything useful. I positively cannot keep track of the days. I find it both unsettling and reassuring that no one has noticed my lack of work. The boss left once again, neither of us better for his visit.

Februne thirty-eighth
It took hours for Thomas II to die, and I watched every step of his death dance, the phone held to my ear, my sweet disguise. He swam up and down, not able to maintain any level very long, he waddled on his side and finally lay, arched, gasping laboriously on the green glass stones of his home until he could no longer. This seems impossible, but I swear I saw his eyes gloss as he sought his eternal sleep. I wish that I could have done something, but I suppose it was inevitable. His body is still in his bowl. A toilet does not deserve the remains of so great a beast, nor does the ground. For so many years he pressed his lips to the heavens, seeking oxygen to sustain his body and hope to sustain his fishy soul. Surely, surely, Thomas II belongs to the sky.

Maypril one hundred ninety fifth, 10:59 am
I still haven't found a way to give Thomas II to the sky, so he remains in his watery grave. White tendrils of mucus decay emanate from him, his eyes are rotten through. I've noticed that no one comes into my cubicle anymore, they are disgusted by his noble form. Fine by me.

Maypril one hundred ninety fifth, 2:37 pm
I am on the street, taking Thomas II for a walk. Earlier I received a particularly irritated talk from the tiny man who chains my soul, I know he was angrier than ever before, because I have never heard is voice hit so high an octave. Then I broke the chains. I stood up, stretched a spine that was eternally stooped, and found myself towering over him, over my tiny desk and too-low chair. No words, just actions. Just a fishbowl reeking of death accompanied me on my march to freedom. The man knew he no longer owned me.


I don't know how long that I walked, or how far, or where I came to, or where I am, or how long it's been since I've eaten or slept, but I do know that my mind is exceptionally clear, and I am happy for the first time in my life. At the first bridge I came to, Thomas II finally tasted the sky, even if it was only for a brief sparkling moment of crystalline falling water. He was liberated from his bowl, as I was liberated from my cage.

I remember mistreating you, back when my cage was comfortable and important, so now I will send this sickening time lapsed letter to you. I hope that it brings a smile to your face, because you were right, and you should revel in that. No, I lied. My true hope is that you've forgotten me.

Someday soon, I, Thomas I, will find the sky.