Fiction · early piece · after The Stanley Parable
The narrator would like Stanley to get on with it.
And so Stanley came to a water cooler. This wasn't the correct path, of course. The story was down the hall, to the left, through the door marked 'Mind-Numbingly Important Business.' But Stanley, it seemed, was thirsty.
Or perhaps he wasn't thirsty. Perhaps he was simply drawn to the object itself. It hummed with the profound, electric silence of the truly unimportant. Gleaming plastic, a reassuring gurgle deep within its belly, and two little spigots: one for cool, one for... well, slightly-less-cool. A marvel of office hydration technology.
Stanley stood before it, utterly transfixed. He wasn't getting a drink. He wasn't moving on. He was just... looking.
Was this a statement, Stanley? A quiet rebellion? Were you protesting the very concept of forward momentum? By standing perfectly still in front of this monument to mediocrity, were you shouting into the void, 'No! I will not be a slave to your narrative! My story is one of quiet contemplation of mid-range water dispensers!'?
It was a bold, if profoundly boring, choice.
Oh, now he's leaning in. He's put his ear to the plastic jug. Is he listening for secrets, Stanley? Do you think the water is whispering the ending to you? I can assure you, it is not. Its secrets are purely of filtration and mineral content.
Any moment now, the story will simply die of neglect, its plot points withering on the vine while you commune with a glorified bucket. The choice is yours, Stanley. As, it seems, it always is.