Monday, March 29, 2010

Bonus Post: A Writing Prompt

On occasion, there comes a Monday or Friday when no TriMu is scheduled to blog. The calendar is just tricksy that way. But never fear, dear readers; we will not leave you with nothing to read today! We've decided to do a collaborative post, a brief response from each of us to a writing prompt. We hope you enjoy.

Today's Writing Prompt: Someone who is not your boss but is above you in the business organization overall is making your professional life a living hell. You've tried filing a grievance, asking for guidance, even confronting him/her about the issue. Nothing has helped. In fact, things are getting worse. You've decided there's only one thing for it: he/she has to die. All that's left now is figuring out how to do it...

NL Berger's Response: I peered around the soft wall into the cubicle, so nervous I felt like my tongue had glued itself to the roof of my dry mouth. She was sitting with her back to me, white wires from her ear buds curling down from her ears. Her head continued to bob in time with whatever music she was listening to. I nearly sighed with relief, catching myself just in time. She hadn't heard my approach and I certainly didn't intend to give myself away now. Not when I was so close.

There were papers strewn all over the desk in front of her, scattered in the kind of disarray that screamed "I'm in the middle of something urgent!", but I wasn't fooled. She hadn't moved a single one of them or made any notes in almost an hour. Besides, I was pretty sure at this point that she couldn't actually read anyway.

The fa├žade was carefully constructed to get her out of lunch with the boss. The plan had worked, but she hadn't bothered to check, to realize that she was alone in the office now with just me. I was pretty sure she didn't know anything about follow through either.

I crept into the small space, a thin dagger clutched tight in my right hand--giving myself, a lefty, the perfect alibi. Hopefully. I could hear the faint pounding of the music blasting in her ears now and the violent rhythm seemed all too appropriate. Two more steps on silent feet and her reign of terror over my career would be over. Forever. My heart hammered in my throat but the fingers clenching the dagger never shook. I took that as a sign that I was doing the right thing and lunged forward.

Darlene C. Goodman's Response: What? Doesn't everyone have an assassin on retainer? We don't need to know how it's done. Just slip a 3X5 card with the name and email address into a particular planter in a particular park in a particular suburban neighborhood and the deed gets done.

Tori Pryer's Response: Accidental computer electrocution.....Or so they think. The programmer steps into his cube and turns on his computer. A hot cup of coffee in his hand. He places his hand on the mouse. The desk jostles. The coffee spills. A charge runs through his body. His heart stops. The coroner declares it an accident, but was it? You be the judge.

Sarah Templeton's Response:
Once upon a road quite dreary, while he peered through windshield smeary,
Over on the wint'ry side and shoulder of darkened icy road,
While he squinted, nearly blinking, foreboding sense came a-sinking,
As a grenade came a-clinking, clinking (Oh, the blood - Red snowed!)
through the moonroof, it flare-ed, tripping (Oh, the blood - Red snowed!) -
On a dark, midwinter road...

Haricot Vert's Response: It's all about habit. You always, always, turn on your radio each morning without fail; walk in, sit down at your desk, put your fingers on that little knob and turn it. Oh yes, habit is the key. But so is going above and beyond the call of duty. Because who in their right minds actually reads those MSDS sheets?
...And we'll all crowd into the office as the paramedics take you away, because we're so worried about you, dearest...

Anyone else in the mood for some creative stretching exercise today? Post your own responses to this writing prompt in the comments!

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