A Short Story I Wrote - Advertising

I hope you enjoy this short story which I’ve written. It’s less a story and more a rant on advertising, but hopefully pleasant to read either way.

The advert lurks by the table, and has become just another thing to have at breakfast. Staring at you, like a newborn child as it clings to its mother. The advert doesn’t want to harm you; at least, that’s what it claims. It just wants to improve your life, whatever the cost.

It’s an exciting opportunity, one you can’t miss out on. Soon it will be gone. You should go with it, embrace the unknown. Come on, just a click, it won’t bite. 

Your eyes scroll past, focusing on the world that’s outside of a flashy banner. It’s hard to drag your eyes from it, though - the page wouldn’t feel complete without it, it’s part of the fabric - tear it out and you’d need to sew a similar patch in its place anyways. You’re tempted to click on the advert and let it speak, to tell you more about what your life will be. But you resist.

And then the advert’s gone, and another opportunity takes its place. It’s much the same, perhaps the graphics are slightly different - they’re like horses at a carousel ride. 

You should join us, you’d fit in. You’re just like one of us, we’ve known that since the start.

But like ink in water, you can remove it with one stroke. It will merely come back when the carousel has fully rotated and you’re back to where you started - you know this, of course: you could pay to free yourself completely of the act of removing the advert, but it’s effortless to do so, almost like a reflex.

It will come back eventually - the breakfast will have long been eaten, in fact it would be many hours since and you’d have forgotten what you were reading earlier that day, but the advert hasn’t forgotten about you.

It has been hiding, and now comes up waving in your face. It’s returned as a banner, and the opportunity feels more enticing, the animations dance gracefully in your eyes…

It would be courteous to say hello to it, maybe agree to visit later, but it’s easier to flick to a different article.

The advert won’t complain, it knows you’re busy right now.

A walk in the park would be a nice distraction, you could focus on the birdsong and the nature, let it turn all your doubts into a dense fog, one you can escape for now. It’s the perfect set up for the advert, it knows you’re less prepared. 

It will initially walk slowly behind you, waiting as you turn your head, before it’s hard to escape. The billboard grins at you, wakes you from your trance, beckons you to come along and try the opportunity. Don’t be scared, you’re not alone in doubting.

Again, it’s polite to greet it, but easier to ignore it. You turn your head back, now unable to block out the cries of nearby traffic, but maybe you can carry on, make it out before the panic of work properly ensues. The advert tries again on multiple occasions, it even dares to trip you up and force you to divert all your attention on it. But you continue, hoping you’ll carry on unfazed. And you do for the time being. Work is tomorrow, after all, every hour before then is precious.

The advert won’t mind that.

By dinner, it’s staring back at you. It’s in an article, takes up the whole screen, leaves the writing consigned to the scraps of paper, tries to lock your eyes to it from every possible angle. You’re confined by the room, the door will be no help should you escape, it’s ready to follow you out, it’s shown as such already. So you click on the advert, hoping it will be relieved its pursuit has succeeded, perhaps it will go on to attack another victim, it’s no longer your problem after all. So you turn your attention to the food, moving it from side to side, hoping that will keep your mind off of tomorrow.

Come night, however, the advert smiles as it drags you out of bed. Rubbing your eyes of any sleep, it doesn’t let you force a word in - instead, it starts lauding you. We still want you, and we’re glad you want us to. How does this date sound? Perhaps you’ll be even more convinced by this offer. We know you want us, just nod and all will go away. 

You’d do anything to be left alone, so you sign up to anything they even think about giving you and try to get some more minutes of sleep, anything will do, tomorrow is a workday and you need every last drop of it to get by. You’re not even sure of what you said, as long as it was positive it would do. You embrace the advert, just before telling it to leave, as if it’s a drunken guest ruining the atmosphere. Anything to escape the dread.

The advert, though, departs with a sly grin - you’ve made its work so much easier, knowing you’re only going to want more of it once tomorrow’s gone.