Alice hears Leah hang up her phone on the other side of the cube wall. She raises her eyebrows at Freddy to let him know her time has come.
“Bye dude,” he says.
Alice resists the urge again to explain to him she is a dudette. He says goodbye like that to everyone. It’s one of the quirks that make him lovable. She finishes the five step journey to Leah’s side of the cubicle wall. Leah is typing an email.
“Just a sec,” Leah murmurs.
“Take your time,” Alice says. The production team is downstairs from her department and it’s unlikely anyone with real work for her to do will happen upon her here. Her purpose for seeing Leah could have easily been relayed by email or phone, but Alice was sick of looking at the pictures in her cubicle. She looks at the pictures in Leah’s: mushroom cloud, storm troopers, a cartoon of garden gnomes roasting a plastic pink flamingo on a spit…
“Here are your fucking ISBNs,” Leah mumbles as she types, “the same fucking ISBNs I sent you last fucking Tuesday. They are in the fucking folder. I put them in the fucking folder because you always complain you can’t fucking find them. May you fucking choke on them. Thank you, Leah Schultz.”
Alice Leahns forward to read the screen. As per your request on 1-16, I am sending you the ISBNs for the Dayle Screener report files, again. If you misplace the email with these ISBNs again you can locate them in the Dayle folder system on the common drive. They were posted to the folder “Dayle ISBNs” last week. Thank you, Leah Schultz
“How can you say one thing out loud while typing another,” Alice asks.
“I’m godlike,” Leah says. “What’s up?”
“I’m SAD.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Freddy told me I’m SAD.”
“That bastard.”
Alice smiles.
“Seasonal affective disorder,” Freddy hollers louder than necessary considering he overheard them talking at normal volume. “She’s sad because there isn’t any sun.”
“’There isn’t any sun,’ isn’t that slogan for our company,” Leah smiles.
Showing posts with label GAN. Show all posts
Showing posts with label GAN. Show all posts
January 21, 2008
January 19, 2008
Last Saturday
Last Saturday has worked as I always hoped it would: this month's challenge inspired me to write another scene for a character who's story I've all but given up on. Perhaps there is hope for the Great American Novel yet. It's a small snipet for Alice, but it's more than I had before. That's a good enough reason for writing exercises once a month.
“It’s all your fault, you know,” Alice says to Freddy.
“My fault? Who me, what I do,” Freddy replies.
“You brought all this cold back with you from Michigan.”
“Who went to Michigan, I didn’t go to Michigan.”
“I thought you went back home to Michigan for Christmas,” Alice says.
“No, my mom came from Michigan to visit us this year. It’s too cold up in Michigan.”
“Oh, so it’s your mom’s fault.”
“What can you do,” Freddy shrugs.
“Well tell her I don’t appreciate it.”
“I’ll tell her. No more cold. Alice said so.”
“That’s right,” Alice smiles. “I don’t do well in cold. I know it’s cliché, but I really think it’s making me moody.”
“It’s not cliché. They’ve scientifically proven it. If people don’t get enough good weather they get depressed. They call it seasonal affective disorder. In Michigan they used to always do stories about people moving from Florida and getting SAD and going bonkers.”
“I thought that was cabin fever,” Alice says.
“That too.”
“See. This weather sucks.”
“It’s supposed to be this way,” Freddy says with a slight lilt of concern.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s January. Cold and wet,” Alice sighs. “Well at least there’s a reason I’m like this. I’m SAD.”
“It’s all your fault, you know,” Alice says to Freddy.
“My fault? Who me, what I do,” Freddy replies.
“You brought all this cold back with you from Michigan.”
“Who went to Michigan, I didn’t go to Michigan.”
“I thought you went back home to Michigan for Christmas,” Alice says.
“No, my mom came from Michigan to visit us this year. It’s too cold up in Michigan.”
“Oh, so it’s your mom’s fault.”
“What can you do,” Freddy shrugs.
“Well tell her I don’t appreciate it.”
“I’ll tell her. No more cold. Alice said so.”
“That’s right,” Alice smiles. “I don’t do well in cold. I know it’s cliché, but I really think it’s making me moody.”
“It’s not cliché. They’ve scientifically proven it. If people don’t get enough good weather they get depressed. They call it seasonal affective disorder. In Michigan they used to always do stories about people moving from Florida and getting SAD and going bonkers.”
“I thought that was cabin fever,” Alice says.
“That too.”
“See. This weather sucks.”
“It’s supposed to be this way,” Freddy says with a slight lilt of concern.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s January. Cold and wet,” Alice sighs. “Well at least there’s a reason I’m like this. I’m SAD.”
November 6, 2007
Paragraph 1
The Great American Novel, Chapter 1: Onions
A few years past the apocalypse, during one of the twice-yearly times when all the clocks are set correctly, our young heroine was dismayed by the contemplation that she might be developing an affinity for onions. Resolution of the predicament was immediately hampered by her indecision as to whether she should initially react to this conflict by declaring, “Egad!” or “Jumpin’ jehosophat!” She was initially drawn in by the more alliterative one but then hesitated as it implicated a certain amount of quaintness that she was loathe to invest in considering she was to be everlastingly hampered by a first and middle name combination that immediately drew to mind the image of a young girl in a gingham apron baking pies. Oh, how she dreamed to have one of those she-spy names that at once conjured the sensation of enticing danger and the image of female genitalia. Our heroine did realize that she-spies most likely also began their early lives with humdrum nomenclature that evoked Iowan baked goods, but later changed their names to something more likely to catch their male opponents off guard. Our leading lady did not feel that option was open to her as her first name came from her great-grandmother and her middle from her aunt: a Nordic homemaker and manic-depressive respectively. Also, our heroine was always distressed by the needless destruction of vases, which she assumed would be a hindrance should she ever take up a career in espionage. None of this, of course, would have anything to do with how she would solve the predicament on hand: onions.
A few years past the apocalypse, during one of the twice-yearly times when all the clocks are set correctly, our young heroine was dismayed by the contemplation that she might be developing an affinity for onions. Resolution of the predicament was immediately hampered by her indecision as to whether she should initially react to this conflict by declaring, “Egad!” or “Jumpin’ jehosophat!” She was initially drawn in by the more alliterative one but then hesitated as it implicated a certain amount of quaintness that she was loathe to invest in considering she was to be everlastingly hampered by a first and middle name combination that immediately drew to mind the image of a young girl in a gingham apron baking pies. Oh, how she dreamed to have one of those she-spy names that at once conjured the sensation of enticing danger and the image of female genitalia. Our heroine did realize that she-spies most likely also began their early lives with humdrum nomenclature that evoked Iowan baked goods, but later changed their names to something more likely to catch their male opponents off guard. Our leading lady did not feel that option was open to her as her first name came from her great-grandmother and her middle from her aunt: a Nordic homemaker and manic-depressive respectively. Also, our heroine was always distressed by the needless destruction of vases, which she assumed would be a hindrance should she ever take up a career in espionage. None of this, of course, would have anything to do with how she would solve the predicament on hand: onions.
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