2025-2026

Burt

Oliver M Wisniewski

12th Grade

Short Story​

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Burt walked into work, disgruntled as usual. He was a tall man, not particularly skinny, fat, muscular, or anything really. His hair had begun its slow descent into grayness, and his eyes betrayed a vague resentment toward his ancestors for evolving conscious thought. He wore one of the two suits he had alternating wearing at his job for the last seven consecutive years, which ultimately, along with a barely more casual argyle sweater knitted by his second cousin from Armenia, who had gifted it to him at his 14th birthday (which had languished in his closet for longer than several countries had existed) and a Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots t-shirt stained by Chinese take-out and expired almond milk, comprised his entire wardrobe. Burt, by virtue of his disdain toward his everyday life, and ultimately the whole of God's wretched creation, was usually miserable, especially today as his couch had broken the previous night, necessitating him sleeping on the floor, much to the displeasure of his back. He walked through the crowded corridors of the office building at which he was employed, with every coworker foolish enough to gaze upon his eyes being met with a tired but nonetheless consciously-made glare. Burt sat at his desk, which to the untrained observer was a perfectly fine desk, but to Burt was an unsightly wooden abomination of modern carpentry. He began his paperwork and was dismayed by the font choice for the header. Playfair Display? What madman approved this? Reluctantly, he filled it out, the whole time screaming profanities within his mind with such vitriol to make any telepaths around him break down in tears. Eventually, break time came and Burt moved to the lounge to use the coffee machine. As he walked to the blessed machine, the one island of relief in a sea of Burt’s suffering, people moved out of the way to avoid his ire. “Never block Burt’s way to coffee” had become common wisdom in the workplace. Eventually, he reached the machine and was met with the most profound disappointment in a long string of disappointments. The damned words--Out of Order. The world stopped in that moment as Burt’s coworkers braced for his explosion-A tantrum for which the scale could only possibly be rivaled by divine wrath spoken of in holy texts. Instead, Burt simply stared at the machine silently. He did so for a minute, and no one could fully tell if he was still breathing. It was as if he had died of shock and had been frozen in place by God, a monument to the extremes of dissatisfaction with mortal existence personified in human form. Then he laughed. Then he cackled. Then he guffawed, snickered, chortled, and giggled. A maddened stream of laughter escaped his mouth, bewildering all within earshot of this unimaginable noise. Has he finally snapped?, everyone wondered. He continued to make these sounds diametrically opposed to his character for what seemed like an eon-in reality thirteen minutes and sixteen seconds. Then the break ended and everyone returned to their desks. The next day everyone returned to work, dreading what had happened to Burt following his outburst. During break time, they were astonished to see him sitting peacefully, drinking tea. A few dared to speak to him about what had transpired, and he allegedly said he had realized the inherent absurdity of the universe and had decided to live a calmer, happier life. Or he had a psychotic break. There were conflicting stories.