I haven’t tried a Three Word Wednesday for a while. This week’s words are brutal, grope and transfer.
It was a fact of life that in the copy room, the corridors and the work functions he would come on to the women, and brush too close, and have a grope when he could. He was the boss.
The women in the office policed each other, preventing complaint or dissent. If one of the girls didn’t accept things, the results were brutal. Name-calling and isolation were immediate. Reports came to the boss of things she’d said about him, some of them true. Life became hell for the silly cow, until she left the company. She wouldn’t dare ask for a reference.
There was no way out. Tiffany tried; she was a single mum, and couldn’t afford too much dignity. She asked for a transfer within the company, and was offered a role in Mongolia. She shrugged and took it. Her career took off from there, and she eventually became the VP of Human Resources, global. Things started to change.
Showing posts with label 3WW. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 3WW. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Clearing Books
This is a Three Word Wednesday (CCLXV) contribution, using the words fragrant, jostle and remnant.
He watched the big men, small old women and fussing mothers in the crowd jostle for position in front of the huge glass doors. Above the door, a banner advertised the Mega Book Clearance Sale with a start time that was now twelve minutes ago. He shrugged, and sat down on a bench, well back from the crazy people, and returned to the last chapter of a Thomas Keneally novel he’d picked up the day before at a suburban thrift shop.
Eventually the doors were opened. Four bulky, obese men in pseudo-official-looking white shirts that featured plastic badges tried to look intimidating.
After ten minutes, he’d finished the book. He put it back in his bag and sighed deeply, satisfied, as if he’d finished a great meal. He walked past the guards, who now looked bored, and into the warehouse. A small remnant of the piles of books he’d seen before remained. The air was fragrant with a thousand rifled and hastily-purchased paperbacks. He smiled. The pulp had been removed. He moved slowly through the aisles, and selected four books that he knew he wanted to read. The total was $12.50, including GST.
He watched the big men, small old women and fussing mothers in the crowd jostle for position in front of the huge glass doors. Above the door, a banner advertised the Mega Book Clearance Sale with a start time that was now twelve minutes ago. He shrugged, and sat down on a bench, well back from the crazy people, and returned to the last chapter of a Thomas Keneally novel he’d picked up the day before at a suburban thrift shop.
Eventually the doors were opened. Four bulky, obese men in pseudo-official-looking white shirts that featured plastic badges tried to look intimidating.
After ten minutes, he’d finished the book. He put it back in his bag and sighed deeply, satisfied, as if he’d finished a great meal. He walked past the guards, who now looked bored, and into the warehouse. A small remnant of the piles of books he’d seen before remained. The air was fragrant with a thousand rifled and hastily-purchased paperbacks. He smiled. The pulp had been removed. He moved slowly through the aisles, and selected four books that he knew he wanted to read. The total was $12.50, including GST.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Retribution
I used to live next door to drug dealers. I should say they used to live next door to me. To be even more precise, when they used to live, they lived next door to me.
They weren’t just dealers; they were cooking up what they were selling. Everybody knew, but nobody called the cops. There wasn’t much point, because it made life very uncomfortable if you did. They had friends in low places, clearly.
I left them alone though, until a kid died, shooting up on some of their speed. His mother was pretty upset about it, I heard. I’d had enough of living in such close proximity to that scum. It was time for retribution. It was for the kid, I suppose, and a little bit for his grieving mother, but I was sick of the smell.
Friday night I could smell that they were have a cook-up. I put on some gloves, jumped the fence and turned off their gas bottle. After a few seconds I turned it back on. I could hear the gas rushing through the valve. I smiled, and scurried home. I sat on the toilet, immobile, with earplugs in my ears and my hands over my head until the house shook with the force of the explosion. All my windows on the eastern side of the house shattered.
The police called around later asking why nobody on the street had called the police or the fire brigade. Everyone said they thought someone else would have.
This is my response to Three Word Wednesday (3WW) number CCL
This week's words:
Immobile; adjective: Not moving; motionless; incapable of moving or being moved.
Proximity; noun: Nearness in space, time, or relationship.
Retribution; noun: Punishment that is considered to be morally right and fully deserved
They weren’t just dealers; they were cooking up what they were selling. Everybody knew, but nobody called the cops. There wasn’t much point, because it made life very uncomfortable if you did. They had friends in low places, clearly.
I left them alone though, until a kid died, shooting up on some of their speed. His mother was pretty upset about it, I heard. I’d had enough of living in such close proximity to that scum. It was time for retribution. It was for the kid, I suppose, and a little bit for his grieving mother, but I was sick of the smell.
Friday night I could smell that they were have a cook-up. I put on some gloves, jumped the fence and turned off their gas bottle. After a few seconds I turned it back on. I could hear the gas rushing through the valve. I smiled, and scurried home. I sat on the toilet, immobile, with earplugs in my ears and my hands over my head until the house shook with the force of the explosion. All my windows on the eastern side of the house shattered.
The police called around later asking why nobody on the street had called the police or the fire brigade. Everyone said they thought someone else would have.
This is my response to Three Word Wednesday (3WW) number CCL
This week's words:
Immobile; adjective: Not moving; motionless; incapable of moving or being moved.
Proximity; noun: Nearness in space, time, or relationship.
Retribution; noun: Punishment that is considered to be morally right and fully deserved
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
The Realist
The following scene is inspired by Three Word Wednesday number CCIV. The words are break, negative and surface, and are shown in bold below.
Piet didn't consider himself to be a negative person; a pessimist. He was a realist. He could objectively assess any situation. He looked below the surface of a problem, identifying the root causes, and therefore the cures. Yes, a realist.
But, as Piet thought about his marriage, and what it had become, and his prospects of making it once again what it once had been, there was little he could do except break down and cry; again.
After a few minutes, he could control his breathing better. He wiped his face and blew his nose and dropped the tissue alongside a pile of rubbish on the lounge-room floor. He looked around for his wallet and keys, then left for the bottle-shop. He'd be spending the evening with a bottle of Johnny Walker, again.
Piet didn't consider himself to be a negative person; a pessimist. He was a realist. He could objectively assess any situation. He looked below the surface of a problem, identifying the root causes, and therefore the cures. Yes, a realist.
But, as Piet thought about his marriage, and what it had become, and his prospects of making it once again what it once had been, there was little he could do except break down and cry; again.
After a few minutes, he could control his breathing better. He wiped his face and blew his nose and dropped the tissue alongside a pile of rubbish on the lounge-room floor. He looked around for his wallet and keys, then left for the bottle-shop. He'd be spending the evening with a bottle of Johnny Walker, again.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
A More Gentle Creature
"I think a man should be gentle," she said, not looking directly at him. "Strong, and bold, of course; but especially gentle."
"Indeed," he said. "How intriguing. I agree that a man possessing strength and boldness is worthy of some praise; but there is no call for gentleness. That is an attribute more fitting for a lady, I should think."
She laughed. "A lady should appear gentle," she said, "but can never be so, if she is to survive in this world."
"And what then of a man, that is both strong and bold - as you require - but is not truly gentle?"
"Such a man," said she, turning to face him directly, "is vulgar."
He knew that she had said, in not so many words, that such a man was he. He hid his humiliation by turning and leaving, in search of a more gentle creature, with eyes that might adore, rather than pierce him.
This little scene is my response to Three Word Wednesday number CXCVII. The prompting words are gentle, praise and vulgar.
"Indeed," he said. "How intriguing. I agree that a man possessing strength and boldness is worthy of some praise; but there is no call for gentleness. That is an attribute more fitting for a lady, I should think."
She laughed. "A lady should appear gentle," she said, "but can never be so, if she is to survive in this world."
"And what then of a man, that is both strong and bold - as you require - but is not truly gentle?"
"Such a man," said she, turning to face him directly, "is vulgar."
He knew that she had said, in not so many words, that such a man was he. He hid his humiliation by turning and leaving, in search of a more gentle creature, with eyes that might adore, rather than pierce him.
This little scene is my response to Three Word Wednesday number CXCVII. The prompting words are gentle, praise and vulgar.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
To the Top
This is a six-sentence response to 3WW CLXXI. The words are epic, drain and nibble. I've cross-posted this to the 6S social site for comments over there.
I drink my beer and smile big as Steve, my boss, tells one of his epic tales of boating, fishing, drinking and womanising. I chuckle when required; scanning for waitresses bringing more beer or snacks. I drain my glass just in time for it to be replaced and nibble on what I've deduced is a battered, deep fried prawn. The price I pay for free alcohol and food is outrageous. Still, Steve's going all the way to the top, he says, and he's taking me with him. I dummy back to join the group behind me just in time to be served a dim-sim and laugh at one of the Accounts Manager's jokes.
Edit: "by glass" => "my glass".
I drink my beer and smile big as Steve, my boss, tells one of his epic tales of boating, fishing, drinking and womanising. I chuckle when required; scanning for waitresses bringing more beer or snacks. I drain my glass just in time for it to be replaced and nibble on what I've deduced is a battered, deep fried prawn. The price I pay for free alcohol and food is outrageous. Still, Steve's going all the way to the top, he says, and he's taking me with him. I dummy back to join the group behind me just in time to be served a dim-sim and laugh at one of the Accounts Manager's jokes.
Edit: "by glass" => "my glass".
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Nine Clubs
The 3WW Wednesday words this week are heartache, jangle and reckless. A little scene for you:
We play bridge at a small square table in the corner of the staff room over lunch. The game starts when we have our four players. Today I'm partnered with Elka, a Polish woman from the art department. She irritates me in so many ways. Her jewellery is pretentious. She has dangly gold earrings and a golden necklace that looks like a dog chain. There are rings on each finger and countless bracelets on her arms that jangle every time she plays a card.
I could possibly tolerate Elka if she would just eat her lunch and play cards; but for her, this would be a waste of a captive audience. She imposes tales of hardship, misery and heartache on us. She is a perpetual whinger, who complains not only about the present, but also about every wrong committed against her, real or imagined, that she can remember or invent.
Elka is in fine form today, and I'm sick of it. I decide to provoke her further with a reckless bid to eight hearts. She drops her rambling and tells me to repeat my call; she's sure she can't have heard properly. Bob, on my left, doubles my bid. She is stunned now, and tries to rescue us to nine clubs.
The hand is unwinnable, but Elka is silent as she concentrates, trying to make something from nothing. Her pride forces her to fight to the death. I recover my smile as I get myself another cup of coffee and leave the staff room for the fresh spring air. Life's too short to keep playing a game you're not enjoying.
(Edit 28/10/2009: changed "heart properly" to "heard properly". Thanks Mattrozzi.)
We play bridge at a small square table in the corner of the staff room over lunch. The game starts when we have our four players. Today I'm partnered with Elka, a Polish woman from the art department. She irritates me in so many ways. Her jewellery is pretentious. She has dangly gold earrings and a golden necklace that looks like a dog chain. There are rings on each finger and countless bracelets on her arms that jangle every time she plays a card.
I could possibly tolerate Elka if she would just eat her lunch and play cards; but for her, this would be a waste of a captive audience. She imposes tales of hardship, misery and heartache on us. She is a perpetual whinger, who complains not only about the present, but also about every wrong committed against her, real or imagined, that she can remember or invent.
Elka is in fine form today, and I'm sick of it. I decide to provoke her further with a reckless bid to eight hearts. She drops her rambling and tells me to repeat my call; she's sure she can't have heard properly. Bob, on my left, doubles my bid. She is stunned now, and tries to rescue us to nine clubs.
The hand is unwinnable, but Elka is silent as she concentrates, trying to make something from nothing. Her pride forces her to fight to the death. I recover my smile as I get myself another cup of coffee and leave the staff room for the fresh spring air. Life's too short to keep playing a game you're not enjoying.
(Edit 28/10/2009: changed "heart properly" to "heard properly". Thanks Mattrozzi.)
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
[3WW] Tip Velocity
Three Word Wednesday (3WW) CLVI words are: eclipse, languish and velocity. Here is my effort, called "Tip Velocity"
David wants to be a published author, in every corner of his soul. Not just a published author, but popular, respected and honoured. Everyone agree these are lofty goals, considering David failed Junior English and mows lawns for a living. For now, however; he continues to languish in obscurity. His only "published" works are those he posts to his online blog, which even his friends and family read only occasionally, and reluctantly.
David's desire to write is such that it can eclipse every other aspect of his life. This helps him get through each day, because mowing lawns can get boring after the first two minutes. While pushing the mower along, he dreams of characters, plots, crises and resolutions.
While pulling the lawnmower back from the edge of Mrs Smyth's garden, he runs over his left foot. It doesn't hurt as much as it should, and it really should hurt a lot with all that blood, he thinks. Mrs Smyth faints when she see's the blood, so he hobbles next door to call for two ambulances.
While David lies in his hospital bed, his friend Allan, an engineer, tells him that the tip velocity of a lawnmower blade is approximately 650 kilometres per hour.
"Thanks for that," says David. "Hey, did you read my blog yesterday?"
"Sorry," says Allan, as he checks his watch and stands up to go, "I didn't."
David wants to be a published author, in every corner of his soul. Not just a published author, but popular, respected and honoured. Everyone agree these are lofty goals, considering David failed Junior English and mows lawns for a living. For now, however; he continues to languish in obscurity. His only "published" works are those he posts to his online blog, which even his friends and family read only occasionally, and reluctantly.
David's desire to write is such that it can eclipse every other aspect of his life. This helps him get through each day, because mowing lawns can get boring after the first two minutes. While pushing the mower along, he dreams of characters, plots, crises and resolutions.
While pulling the lawnmower back from the edge of Mrs Smyth's garden, he runs over his left foot. It doesn't hurt as much as it should, and it really should hurt a lot with all that blood, he thinks. Mrs Smyth faints when she see's the blood, so he hobbles next door to call for two ambulances.
While David lies in his hospital bed, his friend Allan, an engineer, tells him that the tip velocity of a lawnmower blade is approximately 650 kilometres per hour.
"Thanks for that," says David. "Hey, did you read my blog yesterday?"
"Sorry," says Allan, as he checks his watch and stands up to go, "I didn't."
Thursday, September 10, 2009
3WW (Three Word Wednesday) - "A Bag of Potting Mix"
I've just come across a very simple little blog site called "Three Word Wednesday", or "3WW" for short. In the words of the site's owner, "Each week, I post some words. People write things using the words. Then they comment here."
So, I thought I'd give it a go. The last 3WW (number CLIV) words are "Disarm", "Engage" and "Mayhem". This is what I came up with.
A Bag of Potting Mix
The plan is simple, and we follow it to the letter.
We go to Big W, and the Saturday morning shopping is mayhem, which is perfect. I engage the dragon-lady gatekeeper in a conversation, asking for directions to the gardening section. It's her job to check the bags for stolen merchandise and watch out for suspicious characters like us. While I'm chatting with the old girl, it's Brad's job to disarm the alarm on the anti-theft tag detection sensors.
With the thumbs up from Brad, we go shopping. We find a 68cm flat-screen high definition plasma TV that will suit our flat just fine. On the way out I distract the old cow again by thanking her for her help.
"No problem," she says, "it's all part of the job. Did you find what you were looking for?"
I smile; Brad is walking straight out the shop behind her, barely managing to carry the box. "Sure did; thanks again. Sorry, I have to go now."
I catch up with Brad as he gets on the escalator down to the car park. We finally get the box into the back seat of the car; it barely fits. Just as we close the doors, a cop turns up. It looks like the battle-axe gatekeeper is not as dumb as she looks. Next time I pretend to find what I'm looking for in the gardening department, I should probably buy a shovel, or a bag of potting mix.
So, I thought I'd give it a go. The last 3WW (number CLIV) words are "Disarm", "Engage" and "Mayhem". This is what I came up with.
A Bag of Potting Mix
The plan is simple, and we follow it to the letter.
We go to Big W, and the Saturday morning shopping is mayhem, which is perfect. I engage the dragon-lady gatekeeper in a conversation, asking for directions to the gardening section. It's her job to check the bags for stolen merchandise and watch out for suspicious characters like us. While I'm chatting with the old girl, it's Brad's job to disarm the alarm on the anti-theft tag detection sensors.
With the thumbs up from Brad, we go shopping. We find a 68cm flat-screen high definition plasma TV that will suit our flat just fine. On the way out I distract the old cow again by thanking her for her help.
"No problem," she says, "it's all part of the job. Did you find what you were looking for?"
I smile; Brad is walking straight out the shop behind her, barely managing to carry the box. "Sure did; thanks again. Sorry, I have to go now."
I catch up with Brad as he gets on the escalator down to the car park. We finally get the box into the back seat of the car; it barely fits. Just as we close the doors, a cop turns up. It looks like the battle-axe gatekeeper is not as dumb as she looks. Next time I pretend to find what I'm looking for in the gardening department, I should probably buy a shovel, or a bag of potting mix.
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