STANDARD PRACTICE

By Raoul Suarez

(And he’s back. Raoul Suarez is a writer who uses short, focused narratives to explore complex moral dilemmas. His work often employs a direct and unembellished style, presenting a clear, observational look at human nature. He favors concise prose to highlight the ironies and contradictions of modern life, particularly in the digital age. Suarez’s writing is characterized by its sharp social critique and a powerful use of metaphor, such as the pen and ink acting as a “stain” or the social media post becoming a “forgotten ripple,” to create a compelling and thought-provoking reading experience. – FAA)

She scrolled through her feed late at night, the glow of the screen casting shadows across her face. Her fingers moved quickly as if the words had been waiting all day to escape.

“Corruption everywhere. Nothing will change. Poor citizens!”

She pressed post and leaned back. Notifications started to roll in. A motley crew of reactions. Comments of agreement. Words of validation from like-minded individuals. For a brief while she felt like she was part of something larger than herself.

The weekend passed with her checking the post again and again, watching as people echoed her words, some more passionate than others. She told herself it mattered. She told herself that calling it out was already a form of courage. Valiant. Dauntless. Bold.

Monday morning returned her to reality. The newly-renovated office still smelled of old paper and stale coffee. The same desk. The same folders. The same endless signatures.

A co-worker approached with a thin smile, slipping a folder in front of her.

“Standard practice,” he murmured, as if the words explained everything.

She froze, pen in hand. The comments from her post flickered in her mind.

“Lip service.”

“Turning a blind eye.”

She had written those words once, in anger, but now they pressed against her chest like a giant metal ball with no chains. She saw herself mirrored in the people she condemned, loud in the open but silent in the room where it mattered.

Her hand trembled as she lowered the pen. Each stroke of her signature felt like an admission, a silent agreement with everything she had sworn she despised. The ink spread across the paper like a stain she could not wash away.

She signed one page, then another, and with every page the voice in her head grew sharper.

“You are part of this. You have always been part of this.”

By Friday her post had disappeared beneath a tide of gossip, recipes, and jokes. The likes stopped coming. The thread went quiet. What once felt like an outcry was only another forgotten ripple in the noise of the feed.

She scrolled again, searching for something she could not name, while the signatures sat heavy on her hands like ghosts she could never put down.