How Random Babbling Becomes Corporate Policy (t3knomanser) wrote,
How Random Babbling Becomes Corporate Policy

Weird Story Drabble

"I want to make something," he said, trying to wedge himself into his desk chair. Each time he sat in it it always got smaller. Before long, it would be a shoe, not a chair. "I want to produce something."

The woman sitting on the edge of his desk shook her head, long tresses of black light cascading against the white translucent wrap that barely provided modesty. "That's not true." Her face carried a decade of sadness in that one instant, washing across him and leaving him drifting in the flood waters behind it.

"What do- no. Of course I do. That's why I'm here, isn't it?" Finally, he had wedged himself into the chair, even if it cut blood flow off to his lower extremities. An array of tools waited on the desk, just asking to be picked up. "I'm going to make something." He reached for the pen, but decided writing wasn't really what he wanted to reach out with.

"It's why you think you're here," she corrected. The shift fell off of her shoulders, dragging his attention to the now exposed curve of her breast. "You chase the act of creation- you lust for it, but you do not want it."

Perhaps he would model something in clay? A large lump awaited form. Or perhaps he would take up one of the musical instruments that cluttered the desk. But her skin drew him, inspiring prurience where there should be the clean act of creation. What was she talking about? "I think I'm qualified to address my motivations," he said shortly. He picked up charcoals and paper- he would do her portrait.

From the tide of sadness a bright speck bubbled out of her face, the hint of a smile. It was not visible directly, only by its effects on her face. She was amused. "Isn't that what everyone thinks? I know your motivations better than you. Creation, craftsmanship, these are tools you've chosen on your path. You don't want them, and you don't want me, you want..."

The chair shrunk two sizes, and the charcoals crumbled in his fingers. Air wasn't reaching his lungs, and the paper yellowed and crumbled before his eyes. She had him impaled on the space between words, and held him there for centuries. He begged her to continue, but without speech, without eye contact, only with the craving of his soul.

"... to matter."

Simple, final, and a piercing bolt that told him, without a doubt, that she spoke the truth. Even worse was the realization that the only people that wanted to matter didn't.

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