WRITOBER #5 - Counting Days

michel voogt

Messy office. Messy head.

When faced with hours of clicking, data input and dumb people, the best she could do was delaying. An empty coffee mug, stained with yesterday's memories; small brown halos tattooed on the table who hadn't seen a cleaning cloth for quite some time. Like one could determine the age of a tree by its rings, she could do the same at her table. And if her calculations were correct, she was there for some days now. Forget calendars, she was counting days with coffee.

And thus she was entertained while there was work to do.

...And Those Echoes Rang Out Forever

CarlosOscuroDC

And its head screamed obscenities. Sweet curses - awful nothings. As it lay there, just taking a beating. Just letting the world fall on it. But inside? Oh boy, it screamed - it had practiced a speech and all. Had everything down to a T. Its mouth moved, you know, but there was no sound, no sound at all. Like those old silent movies. It was just waiting for its sketch to end and that black screen with the subtitle with the punchline... THE END.

E a cabeça gritava obscenidades. Doces maldições - nadas horríveis. E quedava ali, a levar uma sova, A deixar o mundo a cair-lhe em cima. E por dentro? Ó não, a coisa gritava - até tinha ensaiado um discurso e tudo. Tinha tudo preparado ao mais ínfimo detalhe. A boca mexia, sabem, mas não saía som. Nenhum, mesmo. Parecia um daqueles filmes mudos antigos. Estava ali à espera que o vídeo terminasse e que o separador negro aparecesse com a legenda da piada a dizer...FIM.