Take This Job and Shove It

Anna's fingers clattered across the keyboard with speed and force.  Their clackety-clack rant might be wordless but the meaning was clear enough.  

I regret to inform you...

As snippets of that morning's meeting looped round and round her memory, Anna could actually feel her blood pressure rising.  Especially when she recalled how Paula had casually commented that motherhood might have detracted from Anna's game.

...please accept this letter of resignation...

Completely unattainable sales targets and reassignment to the worst territory in the division when she returned from an abbreviated maternity leave had nothing to do with it, right?

...effective immediately...

So Paula thought she'd gone soft?  "I'll show her soft," Anna muttered as she clicked the printer icon.

She stalked from her desk to the printer and snatched the document from the tray.  Back at her desk, she read it over, nodded once, and then signed it with a flourish.

Anna leaned back in her chair.  She breathed deeply, once, twice.

She picked up the signed letter, read through it once more and sighed.  Then she ran it through the paper shredder, just like all the ones that came before.

A knock at her door reminded her of who she was, and where.  She plastered on a smile and met her boss's eyes.

"Paula, what can I do for you?"

***

Welcome to this week's edition of Mostly Fiction Monday. What's that, you ask? It's a little something Stranger and I cooked up, you can find the story here.

Today's post was inspired by the prompt The Do-over.

Don't forget to swing by Stranger Upstairs to read another take on the prompt, and come back next Monday, when we'll be writing something inspired by Kiss.   

Maybe you'd like to play too?  We'd love it if you joined in.  Make sure you leave a link in the comments so we can come see, if you do.

Done All Wrong

The psychic had warned her that she'd never find what she was looking for in the church.  And her shrink was always going on about how she should quit smoking pot.  Janie wondered if the two had compared notes and decided to rat her out, just to teach her a lesson.  She wouldn't have put it past Dr. Porter, but Mother May had never given Janie any reason to doubt her, even if the damn tarot cards did come out all wrong most times.

The Pastor stared at her, not saying a word.  The silence was so loud it hurt her ears, but she wasn't going to be the one to break it.  Yeah sure, she had sparked a jay in the church basement.  So?  It's not like she killed somebody, for god's sake.

She shouldn't care.  She didn't care.  But it shook her a little when the old guy didn't even try and pray for her this time.

"I kept telling myself that it couldn't be easy, growing up without a mother," he said at last.  "The Lord knows, I've tried to be patient and fair."

She glanced up, caught his eye.  Cold blue stone.

"You're set on making your own path.  Alright, so be it: I set you upon it.  Pack your bags, I expect you gone first thing in the morning."

"But Daddy!"

"No more chances, Jane.  I'm done."

***

Welcome to this week's edition of Mostly Fiction Monday. What's that, you ask? It's a little something Stranger and I cooked up, you can find the story here.

Today's post was inspired by the prompt The Judge.  

 

I'm dealing with my own judge these days.  I don't know what her name is - probably something snooty, like Eloise.  She doesn't say much but when she does, she sounds like a cross between my mother and my first grade teacher, the terrible Miss R.  Her arched eyebrow and ever-present smirk have left me wondering why I can't do anything right, and more importantly, why I even bother trying.  I've written next to nothing for several weeks now, frozen and blocked by her icy judgement.  But since I flamed out last week, I wouldn't allow myself to bail on MFM again this time.  Writing this post was painful and it's not very good, but it is a start.  

 

Now excuse me while I go stare that bitch down, try and scare her off for good.  Hmmm...where's my mirror...?

***

Don't forget to swing by Stranger Upstairs to read another take on the prompt, and come back next Monday, when we'll be writing something inspired by The Do-over.   

Maybe you'd like to play too?  We'd love it if you joined in.  Make sure you leave a link in the comments so we can come see, if you do.

Various Stages

It Happened Today

My post Christine ranks number two in a Google search for the term "Health Plan Massage Happy Ending".

I know this because when I checked my stats today (and don't ask why I still bother because nobody ever comes by anymore because I rarely ever post but that's another story), I discovered that some poor soul out there ended up at my blog not once, not twice, not even three times...but FOUR times today as a result of a Google search of that very phrase.

I am certain they were disappointed, but I have to wonder why they kept coming back.  Did they imagine the outcome might change?

Ha. 

Broken

It's Monday, and on Mondays, we have this little game around here called Mostly Fiction Monday. Theme + ideaspark = microstory.

Yeah, it is usually that simple. But this week? I don't know why, but I can't do this one.

Maybe it's because there's just too damn much material.

My mind spins and spins. Broken. Broken. Broken...

Yes.

***

I am certain that my friend Stranger can do better, so please go read what she has put together.  And come back next week for The Judge. 

Suburban War

First it was the tulips.  George stepped outside one morning and discovered that every single bulb had been dug up, his garden made a shambles over night.

"Bloody squirrels," he said as he headed to the garage for his gardening gloves and a trowel.

Next, it was the cable TV.  When the repair man showed him the frayed wires that were the source of his trouble, George knew that it was tiny teeth that were responsible for the damage.

"Bloody squirrels," he muttered as he wrote a cheque to cover the cost of the repairs.

The final straw: peanuts in the shell, littered all over his yard.  George was deathly allergic and although he had been careful as he cleaned up, he must not have been careful enough.

"Bloody squirrels," he wheezed as his throat closed up and he struggled for breath.

 <><><>

From the boughs of the gnarled old oak tree across the street, Windracer watched her enemy fall to the grass where he thrashed about and clawed at his throat.  At last he grew still and victory was hers.

She knew this triumph would not bring Longtail back.  Her mate was gone, cut down by the hateful man and his monster-mount, a creature hot and hard and deadly.  The elders of her tribe had counseled her to do nothing lest she be lost as well.  But Windracer had seen too much death come from these men and their unnatural beasts.  It was time for action.  

This was war.

***

Welcome to this week's edition of Mostly Fiction Monday. What's that, you ask? It's a little something Stranger and I cooked up, you can find the story here.

Today's post was inspired by the prompt The Pest.  And nobody could be nearly as surprised as I am to see the direction this one took me!

Don't forget to swing by Stranger Upstairs to read another take on the prompt, and come back next Monday, when we'll be writing something inspired by Broken.   

Maybe you'd like to play too?  We'd love it if you joined in.  Make sure you leave a link in the comments so we can come see, if you do.