A short work of interpretive fiction
Jun. 2nd, 2008 09:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
plonqI have not done a lot of creative writing lately, and it shows; I used to be much more eloquent in my entries here, and in my correspondence at work. I want to get back into writing more of these short little vignettes, if only to hone my writing skills back to an approximation of where they were a few years ago. During off-raid nights I am going to spend less time hanging out in World of Warcraft, and more time staring at a Word document (or, if I'm feeling really radical, getting some exercise).
---
When the otter arrived, he found Plonq staring vacantly into the distance, in a Zen-like state that seemed incongruous with the sloppy, awkward way that he was draped across his chair. He paused for a moment to marvel anew at the cat’s ability to be comfortable in almost any position. A co-worker had once posited that felines are omni-jointed. Giblet had his doubts; Plonq frequently displayed all grace and flexibility of cast iron, yet at times like this when the cat appeared to have been poured into his chair like water from from a ewer, it gave him pause to wonder.
“Hmhm,” said the otter, clearing his throat politely to roust the feline out of his reverie. For a moment nothing happened, and then the little snow leopard blinked a couple of times as his eyes came back into focus on the present. He stirred languidly into motion, and gently pulled a pen out of his mouth on which he had been absently masticating. He stared at the pen for a moment, before his eyes flicked quickly to the otter and then back to the pen.
“I suppose you want your pen back,” he mewled. He held out the well-chewed, slobbery pen to the otter. “You forgot it on my desk when you were here earlier.” Giblet recoiled slightly with a mild hiss of disgust.
“That’s not mine,” he said, as his hand automatically reached up to slap his left breast pocket. “My pen is right… you bastard! That was my good pen.”
“I’ve tasted better,” said Plonq, but though his tone was light, his flattened whiskers betrayed his guilt. “Look, I’m sorry. I picked it up with the full intention of bringing it back to you, but I got distracted. I’ve got a lot on my mind just now, and chewing helps me think.” That the back corner of his cubicle was a veritable pen graveyard, stacked with pathetic remnants of writing implements lent credence to his claim. The cat opened one of the middle drawers of his desk and pulled out an identical, albeit un-chewed copy of the pen. “Here,” he said, handing it to the befuddle otter. Giblet peered over the snow leopard’s shoulder and spied two more unopened boxes of the pens in the drawer.
Giblet reached over the cat’s shoulder and plucked one of the boxes out of the drawer. “This thing is full!” he said accusingly. “They hand these things out like they are platinum coated. How did you manage to get two boxes full?”
“Um,” said Plonq hesitantly, “it turns out that when I needed a key for the server room, somebody gave me a master key for the office. If I need supplies, I just hit up the supply room and sign out whatever I need.”
“And nobody has ever questioned all of the pens you’ve been signing out?” said Giblet dubiously. He dropped the box back into the drawer.
“Well, technically I’ve been signing the ledger, but I’ve been doing so on the behalf of others,” said Plonq. He pushed the box of pens back into its proper spot next to the other one in the drawer. “This box was signed out by El Cid.”
The otter slapped him soundly on the shoulder. “Wait, no!” he said sharply. “This is wrong on so many levels. I don’t know if you are engaging in fraud or theft, but stop telling any more about it because I don’t want to be complicit in your little scheme.”
“It’s not theft,” said Plonq defensively as he shoved the drawer closed again. “It’s only theft if I’m taking it home. You can’t steal company resources if you are using them at work in your job. Do you need any liquid paper or Scotch tape?” Giblet glanced furtively over his shoulder, then lowered his head and his voice.
“Okay.”
A minute later, with his pockets full of ill-gotten office supplies, the otter was about to head back to his cubicle when the snow leopard stopped him with a request.
“Could you do me a little favour?” asked the cat plaintively. “I meant to head over for coffee awhile ago, but I got distracted and now I don’t have time to go before my conference call. If I give you some money, could you head across the street and get me something?”
“You just loaded me up with enough office supplies to last a year,” said the otter. “Coffee’s on me. What do you want?”
The feline tapped an extended claw against his sharp right canine in thought. It was one of the snow leopard’s little affectations that Giblet found endearing. “Not coffee,” said Plonq. “I’m trying to cut back a bit. I could go for a steamed milk of some kind. They have all those stupid ones named after cities, like Paris Spring and London Fog.”
“London Fog is good,” said the otter brightly. “It’s vanilla with Earl Grey…”
“Cleveland Steamer,” said Plonq suddenly. “That’s what I want.” Giblet blinked once and stared blankly at the cat. “It’s not on the menu,” said the snow leopard animatedly, “but if you ask for it, they will know what you mean. They’re really good.”
The otter stared at the snow leopard for a moment longer, and for a second his mouth worked as if he was going to say something, but whatever words he was planning to utter dissipated into a longsuffering sigh. “I’ll be back in about ten,” he said tersely.
The otter detoured by his desk to unload his booty. In spite of his attempts to appear nonchalant and inconspicuous, he still managed to attract the attention of his coworkers in the neighbouring cubicles.
“Staples? Where did you get staples?”
“Can I have a stack of those Post-Its?”
Giblet understood the process, and in short order he had purchased the silence of those around him. He had been careful to take sacrificial supplies for just that purpose. With the rest of it stored away, he trundled out of the office on a quest for steamed milk and coffee.
The coffee shop across the road was a typical urban outlet. It had a short bar on one side, manned by a barista and two helpers who doubled as short-order cooks and waiters who delivered fresh sandwiches and salads to the patrons. Across from the counter was a table that held all of the traditional fixings for coffee and tea. The barista was an amicable rat, who recognized the otter and greeted him with a friendly twitch of his whiskers.
“The usual?” he asked. In this case, “the usual” referred to a double Café Americano with a twist of lemon zest.
“Not today,” said Giblet. “I’d like a Chai Latte, with whipped cream and a dash of shaved chocolate on the top please.”
“One Mumbai Momma, coming up,” said the barista cheerily.
“And one other thing,” said the otter quickly before the rat could get too engaged in his work. “My co-worker also wants something…”
The rat blinked at him expectantly, holding a steaming pitcher in one hand and a frothing thermometer in the other. “Yes?” he prompted.
Giblet gave another sigh, similar to the one with which he had graced the snow leopard earlier. “Look,” explained the otter, “he thinks I’m some kind of gullible idiot and he has asked me to order an ‘off the menu’ item for him, hoping that I’ll embarrass myself.” The rat chuckled.
“Let me guess,” said the barista, “he told you that he wanted a Dirty Sanchez, and probably said that it was some kind of mocha drink, right?”
“Not quite,” said the Giblet. “He sent me over here for a Cleveland Steamer.”
“Oh,” said the rat. “Yes, we serve those here. We don’t get a lot of demand for them; steamed milk with clam juice and a dash of anchovy.”
“The very idea that such a drink exists is an affront to my sense of decency,” said Giblet. “With the naming of those three ingredients you have just disproved the existence of a merciful God.” The rat had put his stainless steel implements back on the counter and was standing with his arms akimbo. He seemed to ponder the otter’s words for a moment, and then nodded in agreement.
“I cannot say that I disagree,” he replied slowly. He leaned forward on the counter and rapped his fingers noisily on the glass. “Anyway, do you want a Cleveland Steamer or don’t you?” The otter deflated slightly.
“Well, if you serve them, I guess I’ll get one,” he said.
The rat nodded. “As you wish.” Even as he heard the words, Giblet caught the faint scuff of a foot on the floor behind him. Before he could move, steely reptilian hands grabbed his upper arms on both sides and his feet were kicked out from under him. As he lay, winded on his back, the rat stepped around the counter, shrugging free of his apron and fumbling with his belt.
“Your friend is right, you ARE gullible,” chuckled the rat. “Steamed milk and clam? Man, I kill myself sometimes.” The otter struggled with the with hands that were holding him down, but the harder he struggled, the more they felt like sheets wrapped tightly around him.
Panting, he awoke.
“No,” he moaned in despair. “No no no!” He sighed despondently and rolled over to hug his pillow. “Goddamnit,” he cursed into the down-filled cushion. “Why do I always have to wake up before I get to use any of the nice new office supplies?”
---
When the otter arrived, he found Plonq staring vacantly into the distance, in a Zen-like state that seemed incongruous with the sloppy, awkward way that he was draped across his chair. He paused for a moment to marvel anew at the cat’s ability to be comfortable in almost any position. A co-worker had once posited that felines are omni-jointed. Giblet had his doubts; Plonq frequently displayed all grace and flexibility of cast iron, yet at times like this when the cat appeared to have been poured into his chair like water from from a ewer, it gave him pause to wonder.
“Hmhm,” said the otter, clearing his throat politely to roust the feline out of his reverie. For a moment nothing happened, and then the little snow leopard blinked a couple of times as his eyes came back into focus on the present. He stirred languidly into motion, and gently pulled a pen out of his mouth on which he had been absently masticating. He stared at the pen for a moment, before his eyes flicked quickly to the otter and then back to the pen.
“I suppose you want your pen back,” he mewled. He held out the well-chewed, slobbery pen to the otter. “You forgot it on my desk when you were here earlier.” Giblet recoiled slightly with a mild hiss of disgust.
“That’s not mine,” he said, as his hand automatically reached up to slap his left breast pocket. “My pen is right… you bastard! That was my good pen.”
“I’ve tasted better,” said Plonq, but though his tone was light, his flattened whiskers betrayed his guilt. “Look, I’m sorry. I picked it up with the full intention of bringing it back to you, but I got distracted. I’ve got a lot on my mind just now, and chewing helps me think.” That the back corner of his cubicle was a veritable pen graveyard, stacked with pathetic remnants of writing implements lent credence to his claim. The cat opened one of the middle drawers of his desk and pulled out an identical, albeit un-chewed copy of the pen. “Here,” he said, handing it to the befuddle otter. Giblet peered over the snow leopard’s shoulder and spied two more unopened boxes of the pens in the drawer.
Giblet reached over the cat’s shoulder and plucked one of the boxes out of the drawer. “This thing is full!” he said accusingly. “They hand these things out like they are platinum coated. How did you manage to get two boxes full?”
“Um,” said Plonq hesitantly, “it turns out that when I needed a key for the server room, somebody gave me a master key for the office. If I need supplies, I just hit up the supply room and sign out whatever I need.”
“And nobody has ever questioned all of the pens you’ve been signing out?” said Giblet dubiously. He dropped the box back into the drawer.
“Well, technically I’ve been signing the ledger, but I’ve been doing so on the behalf of others,” said Plonq. He pushed the box of pens back into its proper spot next to the other one in the drawer. “This box was signed out by El Cid.”
The otter slapped him soundly on the shoulder. “Wait, no!” he said sharply. “This is wrong on so many levels. I don’t know if you are engaging in fraud or theft, but stop telling any more about it because I don’t want to be complicit in your little scheme.”
“It’s not theft,” said Plonq defensively as he shoved the drawer closed again. “It’s only theft if I’m taking it home. You can’t steal company resources if you are using them at work in your job. Do you need any liquid paper or Scotch tape?” Giblet glanced furtively over his shoulder, then lowered his head and his voice.
“Okay.”
A minute later, with his pockets full of ill-gotten office supplies, the otter was about to head back to his cubicle when the snow leopard stopped him with a request.
“Could you do me a little favour?” asked the cat plaintively. “I meant to head over for coffee awhile ago, but I got distracted and now I don’t have time to go before my conference call. If I give you some money, could you head across the street and get me something?”
“You just loaded me up with enough office supplies to last a year,” said the otter. “Coffee’s on me. What do you want?”
The feline tapped an extended claw against his sharp right canine in thought. It was one of the snow leopard’s little affectations that Giblet found endearing. “Not coffee,” said Plonq. “I’m trying to cut back a bit. I could go for a steamed milk of some kind. They have all those stupid ones named after cities, like Paris Spring and London Fog.”
“London Fog is good,” said the otter brightly. “It’s vanilla with Earl Grey…”
“Cleveland Steamer,” said Plonq suddenly. “That’s what I want.” Giblet blinked once and stared blankly at the cat. “It’s not on the menu,” said the snow leopard animatedly, “but if you ask for it, they will know what you mean. They’re really good.”
The otter stared at the snow leopard for a moment longer, and for a second his mouth worked as if he was going to say something, but whatever words he was planning to utter dissipated into a longsuffering sigh. “I’ll be back in about ten,” he said tersely.
The otter detoured by his desk to unload his booty. In spite of his attempts to appear nonchalant and inconspicuous, he still managed to attract the attention of his coworkers in the neighbouring cubicles.
“Staples? Where did you get staples?”
“Can I have a stack of those Post-Its?”
Giblet understood the process, and in short order he had purchased the silence of those around him. He had been careful to take sacrificial supplies for just that purpose. With the rest of it stored away, he trundled out of the office on a quest for steamed milk and coffee.
The coffee shop across the road was a typical urban outlet. It had a short bar on one side, manned by a barista and two helpers who doubled as short-order cooks and waiters who delivered fresh sandwiches and salads to the patrons. Across from the counter was a table that held all of the traditional fixings for coffee and tea. The barista was an amicable rat, who recognized the otter and greeted him with a friendly twitch of his whiskers.
“The usual?” he asked. In this case, “the usual” referred to a double Café Americano with a twist of lemon zest.
“Not today,” said Giblet. “I’d like a Chai Latte, with whipped cream and a dash of shaved chocolate on the top please.”
“One Mumbai Momma, coming up,” said the barista cheerily.
“And one other thing,” said the otter quickly before the rat could get too engaged in his work. “My co-worker also wants something…”
The rat blinked at him expectantly, holding a steaming pitcher in one hand and a frothing thermometer in the other. “Yes?” he prompted.
Giblet gave another sigh, similar to the one with which he had graced the snow leopard earlier. “Look,” explained the otter, “he thinks I’m some kind of gullible idiot and he has asked me to order an ‘off the menu’ item for him, hoping that I’ll embarrass myself.” The rat chuckled.
“Let me guess,” said the barista, “he told you that he wanted a Dirty Sanchez, and probably said that it was some kind of mocha drink, right?”
“Not quite,” said the Giblet. “He sent me over here for a Cleveland Steamer.”
“Oh,” said the rat. “Yes, we serve those here. We don’t get a lot of demand for them; steamed milk with clam juice and a dash of anchovy.”
“The very idea that such a drink exists is an affront to my sense of decency,” said Giblet. “With the naming of those three ingredients you have just disproved the existence of a merciful God.” The rat had put his stainless steel implements back on the counter and was standing with his arms akimbo. He seemed to ponder the otter’s words for a moment, and then nodded in agreement.
“I cannot say that I disagree,” he replied slowly. He leaned forward on the counter and rapped his fingers noisily on the glass. “Anyway, do you want a Cleveland Steamer or don’t you?” The otter deflated slightly.
“Well, if you serve them, I guess I’ll get one,” he said.
The rat nodded. “As you wish.” Even as he heard the words, Giblet caught the faint scuff of a foot on the floor behind him. Before he could move, steely reptilian hands grabbed his upper arms on both sides and his feet were kicked out from under him. As he lay, winded on his back, the rat stepped around the counter, shrugging free of his apron and fumbling with his belt.
“Your friend is right, you ARE gullible,” chuckled the rat. “Steamed milk and clam? Man, I kill myself sometimes.” The otter struggled with the with hands that were holding him down, but the harder he struggled, the more they felt like sheets wrapped tightly around him.
Panting, he awoke.
“No,” he moaned in despair. “No no no!” He sighed despondently and rolled over to hug his pillow. “Goddamnit,” he cursed into the down-filled cushion. “Why do I always have to wake up before I get to use any of the nice new office supplies?”
