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Saturday, December 6

Story

I was bored a little earlier, so I decided to do a little bit of creative writing. Before posting it here, I think I should explain it a little. One of my housemates, Pete, has been set an assignment, as part of his English degree, to write the opening 500 - 1000 words of a novel, being as descriptive as possible. He keeps telling us all that the first sentence is going to be just the word "Cancer" and a full stop. On the tube coming home today, and I had the idea of spoofing it a little bit.

It was with this in mind that I started writing, but it turned very dark, very quickly. I guess it's just the kind of thing which I write. I'm a dark person. Not really, I'm pretty cheerful, but I like to write and express dark themes whenever I get anywhere near being artistic and creative, which happens once in a blue moon. I've no idea where I'm going with this just yet, although there's a couple of possibilities running around my head.

Anyway, here it is:


Cancer. James hated his star sign more than anything in the world. He just didnít conform to it. He wasnít moody, and he wasnít sensitive. He was quiet, but permanently. He didnít ever take offence at anything anybody said, but carried on with his life, muddling along and keeping out of everyone elseís way. He kept his emotions to himself, a trait which could not be further from the norm of those born between the 22nd of June and the 22nd of July.

That was James. An inconsequential being, wandering this Earth, searching for an existence that was always beyond his reach. An existence that promised happiness, glory, love and, above all, the acceptance that he craved so much.

It wasnít that James was rejected by society, more that he was ignored. He was one of those. One of those who you observed but did not see. Heard but did not listen to. Communicated with but did not speak to. A nobody. An existence, but not a life.

James worked in an office. A dull, meaningless job, where as long as everything got done there were no complaints and no praise. His cubicle was grey. There were no decorations, no attempts to implant his personality onto his workspace. Others in his office had practically renovated their cubicles, covering the walls with keepsakes and ďamusingĒ posters. James had no personality to give to his cubicle. He was as grey on the inside as it was.

Anyway, James had no desire to connect his workspace with himself. He worked because he had to. He did not work because he enjoyed his job or because he wanted to make a difference. What difference can one man make anyway? He will be laughed at, ridiculed, mocked, abandoned, or worse, ignored. James saw no point in even trying.

James may not have been noticed by many, but those who did become aware of his existence, and tried to make contact with him were generally shot down. James did not want to go out for drinks with them, or to do lunch, or to do anything which the vast majority would have considered normal. James was quite content to live life alone, and not to partake of any activities that would involve meeting with people.

James would bring his lunch into work in a small Tupperware box, clear with a blue lid. It was the exact size to fit in his sandwiches, a packet of Walkerís cheese and onion crisps and a Penguin chocolate biscuit. James was not a man of extravagant tastes. Perhaps he would switch to prawn cocktail crisps once in a while, but it had to be a special day.

After work, James would blend into the rush hour mob of workers and return to his apartment. Jamesí apartment was also spartan, but at least it wasnít grey. James did have an eye for decorating his home, and spent a large amount of money on it. He had gone for the minimalist look, with plenty of aluminium and glass surfaces throughout.


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