Friday, January 13, 2012

Lunch break truth in fiction--

I've been a bit slammed this week and feeling on edge, the writing has not been flowing, so here's my 15 minutes of fiction, written as I waited for my pulled pork salad to arrive (oh yeah, this is not my office-we don't have cubicles, nor do we have managers, I was picturing the "Office" when I wrote it, with a slightly more tense setting).

“It’s 3:47 for crying out loud” she shrieked
“Quiet, you’ll send everyone into a panic” the more rational voice responded.
“Did you get a paycheck slip today?” the shrieking voice responded, apparently forgetting her previous sense of panic about the time.
“Yeah, I actually got four” she answered calmly. “The holiday backlog is finally catching up.”
At that moment, the manager walked into the hall and the floating voices over the cubicles quieted.
“Did I hear a complaint?” He threatened sarcastically. “If anyone of you has something to say about the time, why don’t you come to my office and we can discuss it.” With his authority stamped, he power walked his way down the row of desks.
He had the look of someone who considered themselves naturally athletic, but who was more likely to pull his hamstring, or hurt his back if he were to move swiftly. His dirty blonde hair was well maintained, but was starting to thin and his suit was obviously expensive, but someone with a sartorial eye would notice that he didn’t wear it well. His white, tie less, shirt was loose at the top, but pulled tight around his slightly expanding belly. The shoulder pads of his jacket were a half inch too wide and he moved stiffly in it, his reach restricted by an ambitious fit. His brown, polished, shoes had bright red shoelaces, a desperate plea to draw the eyes to them.
When he was out of sight, a voice commented “Douche Bag!” audibly enough for everyone to hear, but in a tonne that suggested she felt an element of risk of him overhearing her. It was an irrational fear, since he was long gone, but it’s one that overcomes anyone who says something publicly that they probably shouldn’t.
A few of the girls laughed and snickered. They had all suffered under his glare and wandering eyes and felt the same way.
“Crap it’s 4:00 o’clock” the shreiker noted with more panic in her voice.
“I can’t wait for this day to be done and to go home and get drunk” she sounded desperate this time.
“Yeah, I hear ya” a third voice responded.
Okay, let’s just put our heads down and plug away at this so we can get out of here by 5” the rational girl interjected, with a hint of superiority in her voice.
“Man, I hate Fridays” he thought to himself, as he sat there overhearing all this, daydreaming about the adventures that he’d get up to that weekend.

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