Let’s write more stories 4

Yada yada yada. A few weeks ago I set myself a short story challenge to stave off the boredom of my regular life and attempt to revitalise the dimming spark of imagination that lingered in the back of my dulling mind.

So far it’s not working and none of you fuckers are reading any of the crap I write. Is that because it’s crap? It could well be.

Anyway, ignoring what all the evidence suggests I should do I’m going to carry on. This is week 4. This is story number 4.

This. Is. Sparta.


Story 4.

There once was a man sat alone on his sofa, watching a fictional world go by on his television and wishing that he could live in such stories. He popped open another can of Diet Coke and sank bank into his comfort zone, longing for the kinds of adventure he was playing witness to whilst doing absolutely nothing to make such adventure his own.

‘Fuck it,’ he thought, as he burped out some calorie-free gas. ‘One day that world will be mine. Sure, I might be doing nothing about it now, but who knows how motivated I’ll be feeling tomorrow?’

As each sip went down his throat, more frustration fizzed up inside him. He wanted it so badly, but with every passing second he was wasting more time. Life was just escaping him, drip by sugar-free drip, and all he was doing was sitting there and letting it. This had to change, he felt, but changing it seemed like so much effort and, well you know, it was the weekend. Working on the weekend sounded like a chore.

Pop. Fizz. Sip.

Pop. Fizz. Sip.

One can, two cans, three cans, four. The only thing happening here was a filling bladder. Maybe he could just about muster up the energy to go for a piss, but he’d only know for sure when the time came.

He thought long and hard about what it was he wanted to achieve, wasting even more time when he could be getting up off his arse to do something about it. He thought about his immediate future – how tomorrow would just be like any other day that wouldn’t really get him anywhere, how it would just tick tock by without anything of note taking place, how it would end and instantly become forgettable.

Then he thought about his distant future, one in which his hopes were at war with his expected reality. Would he be doing what it was he wanted to do, or would he still  be sat there counting down the minutes? Would he be the heroes he was watching, or would he still be there watching them?

Pop. Fizz. Sip.

For now he would settle for the latter, but you better believe sometime soon he’d do something about it.