by Richard Rippon
I stare blankly out of the window, over grey skies and terracotta roof tiles, picturing a range of apocalyptic scenarios. Flesh starved zombies shambling over the horizon; a beautiful mushroom cloud to the east; a city swamping tidal wave rising up above the houses and office blocks. I imagine a terrorist bomb from within; workers blown through the windows, tethered to their PCs by their mouse cords alone, desperately trying to back-up their spreadsheets before they’re vapourised entirely. Anything to break the monotony; anything to announce the arrival of something... meaningful. Suddenly, Scott from HR is by my side, his face ashen with shock. "It’s not good news," he says, "the coffee machine has run out of cups."
Richard Rippon lives in the North East of England. His stuff can be found here.