A Hint of Motivation

A Story by Kadaroli

A look into a not so far away future. (This was a creative writing assignment where I was tasked with writing where I saw myself in the future.)

The alarm sets off, the hellish jingle ringing through the small bedroom for the millionth time. My already forgotten dream comes to a screeching halt, leaving me only with the feeling of adventure and excitement that filled me while sleeping. A groan escapes my throat as I roll over onto my back, my blanket sliding off of me awkwardly. I reach underneath my pillow grabbing the source of the noise, pulling out my phone to turn off my alarm as I reach up with my other hand to wipe my eyes. I squint at the bright screen, my finger sliding across, muting the alarm. 8:03. With the noise vanquished, I sit up, stretching my arms out as far as they can reach before letting them fall lazily back to my sides. My first yawn of the day achieved.

Before I know it, my morning routine is already over. Bagel eaten, teeth brushed, hair somewhat brushed, and a final pat for my cat before throwing my laptop into my bag. I ready to shield my eyes and open my apartment door, my prediction being correct. A barrage of light slams into my face as I throw the door open, my hand not enough to stop the attack. After a few seconds my eyes adjust. I look out towards the city, the view now dull and tasteless. Rochester, New York. Seven years after university and I’m still here. I let out a sigh before departing for work.

The streets are bustling, a sight once forgotten by the world until everyone had been fully vaccinated. Taking the bus costs too much, a bike sounds like too much effort, and dealing with traffic has always seemed like a drag. For those reasons, I rely on my two feet, giving me about an hour of contemplation time before reaching my destination, with which I have a complicated relationship. I pass the many apartment complexes, the countless restaurants, building after building. Now, should I use Python or C#? I spend my walk contemplating this decision, which would affect me and my colleagues for the next year or two. Before I come to a conclusion, I reach my second home, a place I may have spent an equal amount of hours in as my own home, a rented out office building.

I open the double doors quickly, and step into the spacious building, shooting straight for the elevator. I step in and press for the third floor, before resting my bag next to my feet. I check my watch, 10:22. Eight minutes early. I lean against the back and begin thumping my right foot right as the ding of the elevator rings out, and the door slowly slides open. I pick up my bag and exit the small space, turning left. I reach the door, 11B. I try the knob; it opens without any issue. As always.

I push the door open, forgetting once again how easily the door opens, as it swings hard and slams into the wall. I wince and shrink a small bit, cursing myself. I open my eyes and am immediately hit by the all-too-familiar scent of coffee and Axe body spray. The room is medium-sized, about 450 square feet, now filled with six desks, desktop computers filling a portion of each. A door to my right, which led to the small recording room, sat slightly open, a crack visible as clear as day. I silently make my way over to the door, pressing my ear against the white painted wood.

“Do not count me out yet! I shall spend every drop of blood in my body before I yield to the likes of you!”

The familiar voice of my team’s lead voice actor, Alexander, booms from the room. A mix of desperation, hope, and anger carrying each of his words. I look at my watch. 10:28. He had most likely been here for hours, maybe even since the night before. I smile, a surge of motivation flooding my body. I quietly shut the door, turn, and get to work.