I was at the office today, when a bored friend of mine sent me a paragraph she'd written and wanted me to continue the story. We went back and forth a few times in the afternoon, and this is what we came up with. Want to join in?
Edit: Hyde_grrl is in red, I'm in blue:
“So there I was, alone and desperate in the world, in this office. Its
bare walls and yellow light made its sole occupant breath heavy like a
claustrophobic rat trapped in some rat sized elevator stuck between
floors. Only there was no elevator music, just the hum of 3 bad Compaq
Evo's and the voice of a calm mad man. Maniacal mad man. Was he sent
here to kill me? One answer came to mind, over and over: I'm too pretty
for this. I'm too pretty for this. I'm too *hack*…The mad man WAS
sent here to kill me. “Oh look, there I am”. There I was.”
… I round-filed the manuscript without even a backward glance.
Swoosh. At least this one was typed on an honest to goodness
typewriter. As an entry-level copy editor, I'd seen my share of weird
submissions. My favourite to date was the one written in cherry-scented
crayola crayon. I still had it tucked in a file somewhere. I took it
out once in a while when I needed a good laugh.
So here I was, pushing 30, spending most of my waking hours sitting in
a chair that made my back hurt, in front of a coffee-stained desk that
was groaning under the weight of the dreams of others. My job? To crush
those dreams, in most cases. I'm the first hurdle towards publication.
I'm the bastard that passes judgment on the first book you dare to
send; the novel that's going to be your big break. Or not. It's a dirty
job, but somebody needs to do it.
I pried my desk drawer open and ruffled through the half empty bottles of
hand cream, chocolate bar wrappers and cigarette butts to find my nail file.
“Good grief, is this where I left that sandwich?” I thought as I picked out
the pink nail file amongst the clutter, took a deep breath and leaned back.
A good nail file is hard to find. A good nail file could save your life.
Sure, it could pick desk drawer locks or act as a weapon to gouge out the
judging eyes of my boss. A good policy is to keep a nail file in your desk
drawer, just in case of emergency. A sandwich however, is something you
should never keep there. I picked the questionable item up between two
manicured fingers and ever so gently carried it over to my colleague's desk.
He'll eat it. James will eat anything.
Using my trusty nail file I carefully inserted the slim end into the lock on
James' top drawer. Careful not to scratch the surface.
Careful….Careful….*click* Not a scratch! The desk drawer slid open. “And
what have we here?” …
A desk drawer can reveal a lot about a person (go ahead, look in yours).
I hadn't known James all that long, except to pick up on a few about his more
original eating habits, chief among them the fact that he ate everything with
chopsticks and the fact that he'd never found a meal he didn't like. He was a
bottomless pit, but you couldn't fathom it by looking at him. The bastard. Ever
since he moved into my office, it was getting really hard to concentrate on
trashing…ahem… evaluating the manuscipts. He was nice eye candy, and
damn it, he smelled good too.
Anyway, back to the task at hand. He'd be back from lunch soon, and it was
too tempting an occasion not to snoop around a bit. Oh don't look at me like
that, you've all done it at one time or another. Like the glove compartment in
your friend's car when they went to pay for gas, or the medicine cabinet when
you needed to use the facilities at a party. He was a nice little mystery, and
show me a mystery that doesn't beg to be solved. He'd transferred in from
the London office about two months ago, and the office grape vine was still
barren on the topic.
So, the drawer. Office supplies, all neatly organized, some loose change. Nothing too
exciting. A digital watch on a sports band… must be for when he hits the
gym after work. Toothpaste, toothbrush and dental floss… geez, what a boy
scout. Oooh, paydirt. This is interesting. I wonder who the blonde in the
picture is. She's cute. A girlfriend, maybe? Nice sailboat though.
Never dip your pen in the company ink, I always say. Besides, James would have to get in line. Everyone at work wanted me. After all, I AM the boss's daughter. I chewed the end of my pink nail file and rested the heels of my feet on James' tidy desk. I leaned back further in James' black standard corporate chair. My chair was better, definitely more attractive, but how did he get the chair with such firm lumbar support?
The main office door swung open with a jingle. The cutesy Asian-inspired door bells were the receptionist's idea. Charm and style aren't his forte despite the stereotypes and generalizations. Men's voices could be heard chatting it up in the main reception area, one of which I recognized as James'. In my flight to get out of his chair and strategically place the sandwich in his desk drawer, I knocked over the picture of the attractive blonde, smashing the glass frame to pieces on the office floor….
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