Yay! Fiction!
Dec. 17th, 2009 08:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nekosenseiI've been telling ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
doomsey for a couple of weeks now that I was going to write this story. I emailed it to him this evening and got a chuckle out of him, so it must have been amusing.
The story is a little over 1,000 words. Don't have a name for it yet.
“Right this way,” the grim-looking director of human resources, Oddi Leifsson, told Blake as he marshaled him into his office. Blake, who humbly held his work cap in both hands, stepped into the room ahead of Mister Leifsson. He marveled at the oak paneling, the fancy word globe on a golden-gilded stand, various plants— mostly ferns, and an opulent cherry wood desk that dominated the office. “Please have a seat, Mister Eymundsson” Mister Leifsson told Blake. He waved one hand toward one of the small, metal chairs that stood in front of his desk.
Blake sat down. He set his work cap on his lap and rested his hands— gnarled from years of crippling arthritis— on top of it. Blake’s insides were twisting into a knot. What he had dreaded most was finally coming to pass. Blake stared down at his ruined hands while listening to the wooden clock on Mister Leifsson’s desk ticking away the seconds. Mister Leifsson stood in front of a filing cabinet that was across the room. He flipped through manila file folders containing personnel files.
“So, how are you doing, Blake?” Mister Leifsson asked, still flipping through folders.
“Good,” Blake answered him, “b-been busy this p-p-past month with the Christmas rush and everything.”
“Yep. We certainly do get socked this time of year, don’t we?” Mister Leifsson commented, continuing to make small talk.
“Yeah,” Blake replied awkwardly. He wasn’t good at social situations in general, but he had no idea what one was supposed to say under the present circumstances.
Mister Leifsson finally found what he was looking for. He pulled out another drawer, extracted some forms, and slid the drawer closed once more. It made a final-sounding metallic clang. Mister Leifsson returned to his desk with the folder and documents in hand. He eased into his high-backed leather chair and opened the manila folder containing Blake’s file.
“So…I see that your productivity has been down twenty percent this year, fifteen percent last year, and another fifteen the year before that” Mister Leifsson said, looking down at the folder.
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s t-t-the hands you s-s-see,” Blake said.
Mister Leifsson eyed Blake over his gold-rimmed glasses. “Such a shame. You’ve been one of our best employees these past twenty-two years.”
“I-I-I promise to d-d-do better next year. Just luh-like old times,” Blake stuttered. Then, he smiled hopefully at Mister Leifsson.
“Well, I don’t know how to put this more diplomatically, but there won’t be a next year, Mister Eymundsson,” Mister Leifsson said. He took off his glasses and tossed them onto his desk, “I talked things over with the boss, and we’ve decided to let you go. My apologies.”
Desperation crept into Blake’s eyes. “But…but I-I-I-I can do better next year! I nuh-nuh-know I can! I’ll wuh-wuh-work extra uh-huh-huh…”
Mister Leifsson cut Blake off in mid-sentence. “No can do, Mister Eymundsson. You know times have been tough. There’s not enough money to go around so everybody’s been down-sizing. Got to trim the fat if they want to stay in business.”
“Buh-but what about me? What’ll I-I do?”
“Oh…I’m sure you’ll think up of something,” Mister Leifsson said. He gave Blake a plastic smile. Then, he finished filling out Blake’s pink slip and tore off a carbon copy.
“I’m sorry, Blake. I wish this could have worked out. Really I do,” Mister Leifsson said as he handed Blake his copy of the pink slip, “now, if you come with me, I’ll show you the way out.”
Mister Leifsson ushered Blake out of the room and down a couple of short hallways. Blake stared dejectedly down at the floor. He couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact with any of the people he passed. He was sure that later, they would tell their friends that management had given Blake Eymundsson…THE Blake Eymundsson… The Walk.
At last, they came to a solid wooden door that led to the outside. A secretary handed Mister Leifsson a coat and pack, which he then passed on to Blake. He gave Blake a patronizing pat on the arm before opening The Door. Snow swirled into the hallway. The secretary shivered and pulled her fuzzy pink sweater around her for warmth.
“The next town is twenty miles that-away,” Mister Leifsson shouted over the sound of the hungry wind, “there should be a compass in your pack. Good-bye, my friend. And good luck in your future endeavors!” With that, Mister Leifsson pushed Blake outside and slammed the door shut behind him. Blake, caught off-guard by Mister Leiffson’s abrupt shove, toppled head first into a snowbank.
Slowly, Blake picked himself up and dusted the snow off the best he could. He put on the coat and pulled the hood over his head. In a pocket were a pair of gloves. He pulled them on over his swollen hands, which ached with the cold. Then, he located the pack and took out the compass. He looked back forlornly at his old place of employment before trudging in the direction that Mister Leifsson had pointed out.
Blake walked and walked and walked. Snow cascaded around him and a greedy wind snatched at his coat, which proved itself to be too thin for the inhospitable weather. When Blake was about three miles out, he tripped over something half buried in snow. He sat up and saw that it was his old co-worker, Soren Hannesson, who had been laid off last month. Like Blake, he had been given a thin coat, a pack, and was told to walk to the next town. Blake shook his head and struggled on.
Seven hours later and ten miles out, Blake, drowsy from hypothermia, collapsed shivering into the snow. Ice encrusted his mustache and beard, and he could no longer feel his hands and feet.
I’ll rest here for a few minutes, Blake thought, only a few minutes.
Just as Blake was drifting off to sleep, a sleep from which he would never awaken, he heard the voice of his former boss over the anguished cry of the wind.
“Ho-ho-ho! Merry Christmas!” he laughed full of good cheer, “Happy Christmas all, and to all a good night!”
-----
And that's my story! Enjoy the Nikes and Gameboys everybody!
And remember...never work for Santa Claus. His retirement packages SUCK.
doomsey for a couple of weeks now that I was going to write this story. I emailed it to him this evening and got a chuckle out of him, so it must have been amusing. The story is a little over 1,000 words. Don't have a name for it yet.
“Right this way,” the grim-looking director of human resources, Oddi Leifsson, told Blake as he marshaled him into his office. Blake, who humbly held his work cap in both hands, stepped into the room ahead of Mister Leifsson. He marveled at the oak paneling, the fancy word globe on a golden-gilded stand, various plants— mostly ferns, and an opulent cherry wood desk that dominated the office. “Please have a seat, Mister Eymundsson” Mister Leifsson told Blake. He waved one hand toward one of the small, metal chairs that stood in front of his desk.
Blake sat down. He set his work cap on his lap and rested his hands— gnarled from years of crippling arthritis— on top of it. Blake’s insides were twisting into a knot. What he had dreaded most was finally coming to pass. Blake stared down at his ruined hands while listening to the wooden clock on Mister Leifsson’s desk ticking away the seconds. Mister Leifsson stood in front of a filing cabinet that was across the room. He flipped through manila file folders containing personnel files.
“So, how are you doing, Blake?” Mister Leifsson asked, still flipping through folders.
“Good,” Blake answered him, “b-been busy this p-p-past month with the Christmas rush and everything.”
“Yep. We certainly do get socked this time of year, don’t we?” Mister Leifsson commented, continuing to make small talk.
“Yeah,” Blake replied awkwardly. He wasn’t good at social situations in general, but he had no idea what one was supposed to say under the present circumstances.
Mister Leifsson finally found what he was looking for. He pulled out another drawer, extracted some forms, and slid the drawer closed once more. It made a final-sounding metallic clang. Mister Leifsson returned to his desk with the folder and documents in hand. He eased into his high-backed leather chair and opened the manila folder containing Blake’s file.
“So…I see that your productivity has been down twenty percent this year, fifteen percent last year, and another fifteen the year before that” Mister Leifsson said, looking down at the folder.
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s t-t-the hands you s-s-see,” Blake said.
Mister Leifsson eyed Blake over his gold-rimmed glasses. “Such a shame. You’ve been one of our best employees these past twenty-two years.”
“I-I-I promise to d-d-do better next year. Just luh-like old times,” Blake stuttered. Then, he smiled hopefully at Mister Leifsson.
“Well, I don’t know how to put this more diplomatically, but there won’t be a next year, Mister Eymundsson,” Mister Leifsson said. He took off his glasses and tossed them onto his desk, “I talked things over with the boss, and we’ve decided to let you go. My apologies.”
Desperation crept into Blake’s eyes. “But…but I-I-I-I can do better next year! I nuh-nuh-know I can! I’ll wuh-wuh-work extra uh-huh-huh…”
Mister Leifsson cut Blake off in mid-sentence. “No can do, Mister Eymundsson. You know times have been tough. There’s not enough money to go around so everybody’s been down-sizing. Got to trim the fat if they want to stay in business.”
“Buh-but what about me? What’ll I-I do?”
“Oh…I’m sure you’ll think up of something,” Mister Leifsson said. He gave Blake a plastic smile. Then, he finished filling out Blake’s pink slip and tore off a carbon copy.
“I’m sorry, Blake. I wish this could have worked out. Really I do,” Mister Leifsson said as he handed Blake his copy of the pink slip, “now, if you come with me, I’ll show you the way out.”
Mister Leifsson ushered Blake out of the room and down a couple of short hallways. Blake stared dejectedly down at the floor. He couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact with any of the people he passed. He was sure that later, they would tell their friends that management had given Blake Eymundsson…THE Blake Eymundsson… The Walk.
At last, they came to a solid wooden door that led to the outside. A secretary handed Mister Leifsson a coat and pack, which he then passed on to Blake. He gave Blake a patronizing pat on the arm before opening The Door. Snow swirled into the hallway. The secretary shivered and pulled her fuzzy pink sweater around her for warmth.
“The next town is twenty miles that-away,” Mister Leifsson shouted over the sound of the hungry wind, “there should be a compass in your pack. Good-bye, my friend. And good luck in your future endeavors!” With that, Mister Leifsson pushed Blake outside and slammed the door shut behind him. Blake, caught off-guard by Mister Leiffson’s abrupt shove, toppled head first into a snowbank.
Slowly, Blake picked himself up and dusted the snow off the best he could. He put on the coat and pulled the hood over his head. In a pocket were a pair of gloves. He pulled them on over his swollen hands, which ached with the cold. Then, he located the pack and took out the compass. He looked back forlornly at his old place of employment before trudging in the direction that Mister Leifsson had pointed out.
Blake walked and walked and walked. Snow cascaded around him and a greedy wind snatched at his coat, which proved itself to be too thin for the inhospitable weather. When Blake was about three miles out, he tripped over something half buried in snow. He sat up and saw that it was his old co-worker, Soren Hannesson, who had been laid off last month. Like Blake, he had been given a thin coat, a pack, and was told to walk to the next town. Blake shook his head and struggled on.
Seven hours later and ten miles out, Blake, drowsy from hypothermia, collapsed shivering into the snow. Ice encrusted his mustache and beard, and he could no longer feel his hands and feet.
I’ll rest here for a few minutes, Blake thought, only a few minutes.
Just as Blake was drifting off to sleep, a sleep from which he would never awaken, he heard the voice of his former boss over the anguished cry of the wind.
“Ho-ho-ho! Merry Christmas!” he laughed full of good cheer, “Happy Christmas all, and to all a good night!”
-----
And that's my story! Enjoy the Nikes and Gameboys everybody!
And remember...never work for Santa Claus. His retirement packages SUCK.
