Writing Prompt : What Your Desk Thinks About at Night

He had been assigned to the room going on three years. Three long years of closed doors, shuttered blinds, and them.

The whirring boxes didn’t bother him. No, the opposite. Their sound was a comfort, their warmth reminded him that he had the noble purpose of holding them up. He was proud to do his job for the boxes. They were the bringers of much good- of careers, entertainment, creativity. It would be shameful to keep them on the floor.

But the creatures.

They scuttled day and night, turning the squeaking wheel over and over and over. It was a harsh cacophony of grating metal and constant chirps.

The scuttling. Every night the scuttling.

But it would be dawn soon, and they would sleep. The doors would open, the people would come. The creatures would slink back to their cave, silently resting until the night came again. Until then he could do his job, and dream of silence.