Monday motivational meeting. Eleven frowning people surround the board room table.
Door opens; eleven heads bow, eyes staring at the floor.
Heels click across the hardwood.
New voice. “I’m Nancy from Human Resources. There’s no meeting today. Sylvie is no longer with the company.”
Nancy leaves. Eleven smiling people follow.
Connie Taylor is an Operations Manger by day, a writer and reader by night. Her writing aspirations began in grade school with her heroine Pantoulia who leaped over football fields of fire. She’s contributed to the Journal of Integrated Studies and enjoys writing both fiction and non-fiction.
He joined the company as a Junior Clerk in the despatch department and through hard work and natural ability he rose to become the Chairman of the Board, but he never forgot his humble beginnings and always made sure that he sacked any Junior Clerk who showed too much promise.
Michael D. Hill is a Londoner who has lived in Dorset for more than half his life. He enjoys reading, writing and breathing.
His flapping jaws still locked in high gear, frowning men yearned for sonic blasts from a jet squadron to maybe momentarily mute him. They wondered loud, clear, and audibly if even a city nicknamed “The Big Decibel” for its constant and deafening clamor could outdo that son of an amplifier.
Tom McDade lives in Monroe, CT, with his wife, no kids, no pets. He works as a computer programmer in the home plumbing supplies industry.
Herbert Cralston thought queues at office-supply stores were an insufferable, stress-fueled convening of frantic, Blackberry-wielding, over-caffeinated Deputy Thises and Assistant Thats with crooked ties and runs in their pantyhose, frequently all seeking to purchase the same object.
It made Herbert feel stabby; he bought a letter opener made of steel.
“Here it is, sir,” Herbert said, plunking a stapler down in front of a mahogany placard which was embossed with the name “Sir Dr. Willifred the Ninth VanDerGilder the Third, PhD, MA, MSc, BA, with an A-minus average since Grade 4.”
“I asked for a letter opener,” said the Boss.
“Cralston! Bring me a letter opener!”
Herbert Cralston blearily lifted his head, fished around inside his desk with one hand while haphazardly tucking his shirt in with the other, slipped on his leather shoes, then stood and wobbled into his boss’s office.
Too late, he realized he’d forgotten his socks.