The first draft for this that only got to be half a page long was very much a failure of the 'show-don't-tell' storytelling rule, but there is a bit of world-building context I want to establish so I've tried to implant it into familiar bits of speech between characters and in the general view of a people that don't really think about that stuff all that much anymore. It's modern, but lacking a lot of innovations due to the history that this world has, which I'll try to explore to some fruitful end.
Anyways, here's the story, it is going to go in some crazy weird directions eventually but I've gotta really get at that character motivation, make you honestly believe that, yes, this character is trapped on a roof and very pissed off about it.
Hope you enjoy, see you when there's more, and have a lovely day.
Clarise's End-Times Restart I by Mac Clevinger, October 16, 2017.
Clarise sits in her cubicle, phone held loosely in her hand as she stares blankly at the top page of a stack of sheets she had been handed that morning. Row-upon-row of names and phone numbers vie for her attention and fail as they are absorbed into the ennui of her gaze, hers one of several silent cubicles amongst the hundreds sharing the twenty-seventh floor.
She relaxes the muscles in her hand, letting the phone slip from her grasp and hit the floor with a dulled concussion as the carpet catches it. Against the assault of innumerable people to contact about changing their landline provider, her eyes shut and she mouths the slow counting to ten. Then to twenty. To fifty. To one hundred.
A finger taps her on the shoulder when she hits seven-hundred-and-sixty-three, shaking her out of a better place and reminding her of where she really is. Her head jerks around, worried that a manager had noticed her lack of attention again, but lets out a relieved sigh at the sight of a kindly colleague handing her the dropped phone.
“I don’t think Paul would take kindly to seeing you disrespecting the honorable work we do, Clarise.”
She takes the phone from his hand, putting it back on the table with its dial tone quietly buzzing in the background as she sags forward and digs her face into her hands, mumbling through her palms.
“Stephen, I am this close to losing it today, and I just got here. I… I feel like someone pushed my face right into the Peace fence and just…”
Clarise puts a fist against the side of her head and makes an exploding gesture with her fingers, rocking her head back and letting her eyes roll as far back as she could manage with her mouth softly agape. Relaxing her features, she sighs and lets out a little laugh.
“I can’t… god, I can’t keep doing this to myself. How are you still here? It’s only been months and I…”
Stephen looks at the floor for a moment, letting out a quiet chuckle as he rubs the back of his head nervously. Stephen wasn’t old quite yet, but his youth had long passed by and Clarise could see him starting to become that down-to-earth happy uncle that would delight anyone in the family.