Monday, January 21, 2013

Compose Yourself Monday

Creatively Named by Annie

This week I have been concentrating on a new novel idea, so instead of writing from a prompt this week, I am giving a bit of my old writing followed by a prompt to which I will pick up with next Monday. 

I like this excerpt because I don't really write from a snarky place too often, so it was a lot of fun. As always, enjoy and tag-a-long if you feel so inclined. Writing is always more fun when done together!!! 

Office Encounters
     You could hear her coming well before she stepped into the room. Click clack, click clack; it was so loud and so consistent as the noise bounced off the hallway walls that I would bob my head to it. I could block it out, but that would provide the perfect opportunity for her to sneak up on me. I couldn't give her that chance; if I am going to survive these ten minute tortures everyday, I have to be one hundred percent prepared. She will sit down, at the cubicle in front of me. I will get a brief reprieve from the her bear like gait only for a lighter tapping to take its place. Maybe if I break all her pencils, there will be silence. 
     I hear her chair squeak, and I know what's coming. She is twisting a strand of her hair like the sixteen year old girl she wishes she was. The pencil has been forgotten, but the smacking of her gum takes its place. It doesn't matter what she is about to say, it's always the same thing. She looks at her nails, making it seem like it is just too much work to actually look at me while she is speaking and goes on and on about her fabulous weekend with her fiancĂ© Rodney the third. Never Rodney, or Rod, no…always Rodney the third, the rs rolling off her tongue to make her seem even more haughty taughty than she already is. Finally she looks at me with that condescending smile and asks: "It must be hard being almost forty and not havingsomeone to take care of you. No prospects yet there Tip?" She pops her lips around the P. Tip, her snide little nickname for me because I wear a moderate size twelve and opted not to have my stomach suctioned out like the plastic barbie in front of me. 
     My response is always the same, "No prospects yet, Brittany." I smile through gritted teeth as I think of the myriad of ways my chair could do damage to her face. Her eyes sparkle, she knows she has succeeded in pissing me off once again. The chair squeaks, and she is back to her pencil tapping. All I can do is watch the movement and try not to stab her in the eye with it.

This has to do with writing from different senses. Have a sound, smell, or taste lead the way

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