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Cubed

by Adam Voss

graphic by Marcus Del Greco

Fortified to my right, walls hinged on right angles around and behind me, my cube's only weakness from unwanteds is over my left shoulder. I have the upper hand though. At the height of technology I float on a highly maneuverable neoprene office chair, complete with: high caliber multi-angular floor casters, adjustable armrests, seat depth gauges, and lumbar height calipers installed by my predecessor. Coupled with this, a hard polyurethane floor covering allows me to cut through my 5'x10' cube with the speed and agility of a tiger shark through inland waters. And yet, although aerodynamic, I am forced to wade through stale and vomitous chatter. It is everywhere. The office reeks of this muck. So I stare up at the ceiling feigning the wild-eyed thoughts of a deaf-mute child.

Countless cocaine-colored tiles orbit above, while glued below to sticky flutter, my eyes adjust to the greywhite hue of a color monitor. The black phone rings incessant red lights. I do not answer. Instead, crouched across crossed legs I cower from the very non-fiction of this office hell. I hate it here; but then I hated it down there too, and up there was also quite despised. The irony is that this cube wants me to stay: 401K and a handsome salary, health insurance, long-term compensation, short-term compensation, bonuses, company picnics and summer outings. Coffee and soda is free.

Everyone tells me how great it is that I have such a good job. Only fluorescent lights wash over my dimly lit notion of why-not suicide. I fade into no-thought as a plastic clip-fan stares at me askingly, "would you like some re-circulated air?" it says. "Okay," I answer, under the forceful foreground laughter of Jenny or Suzy or Stacey's cleft palate projection. The digital colon between the numbers flashes, the anti-Christ to the analog. It's 4:51 already. Fuck. Another day closer to death.


Adam Voss received his B.A. in Communications at the University of New Hampshire in 1997, having made his mark on the local theatre scene along the way. Earning numerous roles and production credits, he is most often sought after for his heroic acting and vocal talents.

Email: avoss@eqrworld.com

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Cubed

by Adam Voss

graphic by Marcus Del Greco

Fortified to my right, walls hinged on right angles around and behind me, my cube's only weakness from unwanteds is over my left shoulder. I have the upper hand though. At the height of technology I float on a highly maneuverable neoprene office chair, complete with: high caliber multi-angular floor casters, adjustable armrests, seat depth gauges, and lumbar height calipers installed by my predecessor. Coupled with this, a hard polyurethane floor covering allows me to cut through my 5'x10' cube with the speed and agility of a tiger shark through inland waters. And yet, although aerodynamic, I am forced to wade through stale and vomitous chatter. It is everywhere. The office reeks of this muck. So I stare up at the ceiling feigning the wild-eyed thoughts of a deaf-mute child.

Countless cocaine-colored tiles orbit above, while glued below to sticky flutter, my eyes adjust to the greywhite hue of a color monitor. The black phone rings incessant red lights. I do not answer. Instead, crouched across crossed legs I cower from the very non-fiction of this office hell. I hate it here; but then I hated it down there too, and up there was also quite despised. The irony is that this cube wants me to stay: 401K and a handsome salary, health insurance, long-term compensation, short-term compensation, bonuses, company picnics and summer outings. Coffee and soda is free.

Everyone tells me how great it is that I have such a good job. Only fluorescent lights wash over my dimly lit notion of why-not suicide. I fade into no-thought as a plastic clip-fan stares at me askingly, "would you like some re-circulated air?" it says. "Okay," I answer, under the forceful foreground laughter of Jenny or Suzy or Stacey's cleft palate projection. The digital colon between the numbers flashes, the anti-Christ to the analog. It's 4:51 already. Fuck. Another day closer to death.


Adam Voss received his B.A. in Communications at the University of New Hampshire in 1997, having made his mark on the local theatre scene along the way. Earning numerous roles and production credits, he is most often sought after for his heroic acting and vocal talents.

Email: avoss@eqrworld.com