Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah….

The most dull, colourless and boring man on the planet, bar none, I kid you not - he makes white chalk look exciting - turns up to the office in Cairns every couple of weeks to do – well, I’m not sure what he does. No one does. He flies up from Sydney and then sits at a spare desk and then does nothing for a day before flying back the next day. It’s a hell of lurk.  When he does speak, the only words that come out are ‘yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah’ said very fast and seemingly for no reason at all.  I like to respond to the rare, random things he says to me with ‘yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah’ back. I figure that’s his dialect. That, or he’s just pig ignorant. He just looks at me, blinks and then looks away. I have developed this theory that he doesn’t belong to this company at all and he just wanders his dull, boring self in to random workplaces and dulls them by his presence before leaving, with people watching him go saying, “Who was that dull man?” Answer? “Who cares as long as he’s gone.”  Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

The Amarinda Chronicles...

My name is Amarinda Jones. I am the only one of my kind here. I am trapped. With them. The soulless ones. Eight hours a day I keep vigilant and refuse to become one of them. I tell myself I am too strong, too proud and too independent to be dulled down by their monotonous rituals. I refuse to give in to the dull, colourless and boring ways of these creatures. What are they? I speak the name of the undead for I am unafraid of the consequences. I have lived too long with these creatures to fear them. They are the office zombies.

They rarely speak or if they do it’s in a language I have no knowledge of. They mumble and grunt, each nodding before scuttling back to their dull, grey existence in behind walls that encompass them. I sit, ruler in one hand and pen in the other waiting for an attack of the bland and the boring, fearing their dullness will rub off on me, and I too, will be doomed as they are. Ever ready to flee, my Doc Marten double strapped Mary Jane’s stand ready beside by sock covered feet.

My only communication is with the outside world. The sound of the phone signals hope. The delivery man smiles and chats not knowing that I work with them. The zombies. But then how could he? He is normal. They are not. They search for food and only look at me when on the prowl for it. I hiss at them and stand my ground, in my stockinged feet, drawing myself to my magnificent height of 5 foot two, defying them to come closer for I am ready.

My only hope and sustenance is the hands on the clock edging ever closer to the hour I can escape, for a while, from the creatures.

I know there are kindred souls in similar outposts to my own holding their own against monotony, ignorance and gluttony. We are one. We are many. We prevail.