Cassandra Morphy
Any story can make a good book, given enough depth and context to draw in the reader:
My neighbor seemed oblivious to my sidelong stare as she continued to do her work. It was almost like she was making a concerted effort not to meet my gaze. Her face was locked on the cold dead screen in front of her. But I knew that she knew I was there, that she knew what she had done and why it infuriated me so. Hadn't I just been talking to her about this last week?
I know I have my quirks, much more so than most other office workers, but it helped with my work. My attention to detail made it so that no discrepancy passed by me, no data out of place gets sent onward to the higher ups. Though, when it came to my personal life, when it came to me being social, it only ever seemed to get in the way. No one ever seemed to see the world like I did, so I tended to keep my silence about certain things. However, that only gave them time to seethe beneath the surface, ever letting them bubble up until they burst forth in a wave of anger and rage that the world had never seen before. I don't get angry often, at least not to the outside world, but when I do, the Hulk has nothing on me.
My neighbor gets up again, heading for the bathroom, or perhaps just escaping the scene of the crime. My work goes unnoticed as I glare at the source of my anger, the source of my loathing. No one else seemed to notice or care about the discrepancy, no one but me, yet it stuck out like a sore thumb to me, a white hot fire that burned in the forefront of my mind, never to give me the respite I need to do my job, to find the peace of mind needed to be at my best.
When she comes back, I'll ask her, I'll confront her about the issue. I won't go overboard, I won't let my anger get the better of me. Because what would people say when they read in the newspaper the next day "Woman goes crazy over someone moving her trash can"?
My neighbor seemed oblivious to my sidelong stare as she continued to do her work. It was almost like she was making a concerted effort not to meet my gaze. Her face was locked on the cold dead screen in front of her. But I knew that she knew I was there, that she knew what she had done and why it infuriated me so. Hadn't I just been talking to her about this last week?
I know I have my quirks, much more so than most other office workers, but it helped with my work. My attention to detail made it so that no discrepancy passed by me, no data out of place gets sent onward to the higher ups. Though, when it came to my personal life, when it came to me being social, it only ever seemed to get in the way. No one ever seemed to see the world like I did, so I tended to keep my silence about certain things. However, that only gave them time to seethe beneath the surface, ever letting them bubble up until they burst forth in a wave of anger and rage that the world had never seen before. I don't get angry often, at least not to the outside world, but when I do, the Hulk has nothing on me.
My neighbor gets up again, heading for the bathroom, or perhaps just escaping the scene of the crime. My work goes unnoticed as I glare at the source of my anger, the source of my loathing. No one else seemed to notice or care about the discrepancy, no one but me, yet it stuck out like a sore thumb to me, a white hot fire that burned in the forefront of my mind, never to give me the respite I need to do my job, to find the peace of mind needed to be at my best.
When she comes back, I'll ask her, I'll confront her about the issue. I won't go overboard, I won't let my anger get the better of me. Because what would people say when they read in the newspaper the next day "Woman goes crazy over someone moving her trash can"?
More Answered Questions
About Goodreads Q&A
Ask and answer questions about books!
You can pose questions to the Goodreads community with Reader Q&A, or ask your favorite author a question with Ask the Author.
See Featured Authors Answering Questions
Learn more