In Writing

Most people had drifted home, crying tiredness or early mornings. Five of us remained, slumped among empty beer cans and crisps ground into the carpet. The clock dragged past 3am, paper streamers dangling over the face.
“Do you ever wonder what it’s all about?” I asked. It was late enough for that sort of question.
There were a few drunken nods and shrugs. Then Lucy piped up.
“No. I know what it’s all about.”
“Really?” I looked up from my vodka, unconvinced. “How’d you manage that?”
“It’s all written in a book I found. The point of everything.”
“Right…so what is the point then?”
“To do what the book tells you. The book was very clear about that.”
I stared. “Don’t you think whoever wrote the book might want you to think that?”
“No. Lots of people wrote it. It can’t be wrong because the big invisible spirit told them what to write.”
“Told them?”
“Well, they couldn’t hear it. But what they wrote was what it wanted. It says so in the book.”
I downed my vodka, hoping she would make sense when I was drunker.

View this story's 2 comments.