Them....

So, I went into town, did bootcamp, the gym and then got in my car and realized I had left not only my lunch and my specs behind at home but more importantly, I left my USB stick with my current work in progress (wip). Quel horreur! How am I supposed to be at my day job all day and not do personal stuff? It would be just wrong. I would probably get a leg cramp or a headache or something. It was only 7:50am so I drove home and I ran into them. Oh the unspeakable, insidious horror of them. I couldn’t believe what was happening on the way into my perfect lovely rainforest suburb. They were everywhere. I couldn’t move because of them. How could there be so many? There were a massive cluster of them choking the streets. I looked left, then right. There was nowhere to turn to avoid them. They closed in on me and I wanted to flee, to scream and fight my way free of them. But it was impossible. They were slow, crawling, deceptive and sinister, all having the same mark of Satan on them – the ‘my family’ sticker. Them. The parents of the snotty Jeminas, hormonal Harrys, precious Tarquins and soon to be pregnant Brittanys. It was the school run. Eeeek! 'My family' are scary enough on normal streets. But outside schools? On the inhumanity of it.  

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.