The secret to writing is getting things out. Like other art forms, its not necessarily the content, but that you've put it out there. Interpretation is in the eye of the beholder. I like what I do, but others may not.
This doesn't mean that what I'm doing is less valuable. I enjoy it... and in the end, that is really the point of creating. Plus, this blog gives me a good outlet for the various ideas that run through my head that have absolutely nothing to do with everyday life. Also, it gets my creative juices flowing for the stories that I'm not ready to share.
Well, here we go:
The new bite still itched. Washing the bed, apparently, had not been the answer to the bug bite situation. Four bites over the course of three weeks. One bite would start healing and stop itching, and then a new one would appear. Always discovered upon waking, and never in the same general area.
Navel, right buttock, left breast, right calf, and left forearm. Sometimes on the back, sometimes on the front. They weren't from clothing allergies, or from her sheets being dirty. Add it to the list of awesome annoyances.
Stolen sticky notes, missing pens, bug bites and bad coffee. Seems things were just adding up again. She itched her forearm absentmindedly as she eyeballed the pile of new paperwork on her desk and the steaming cup of swill the office manager had the nerve to call coffee.
Reports that needed completion and filing. What kind of joke was that? A person joined an actionable (and undeniably sexy) industry like corporate espionage to go out and do things. Not sit at a desk and push papers around and drink disgustingly bad coffee. It wasn't like the movies or television shows. There were no hot "misunderstood" loner types with their sloe smiles and covert glances, ready for action at all times, even up against the copy room door. Actually, there wasn't even a door to the copy room at all.
The closest thing she even had to an office romance was the strange tension between her and the new office assistant. It was a no-go, however, seeing as he was both much too young for her and smelled like garlic almost constantly. She sighed into her swill and started filling out reports.
By 3:30pm, it was time for her weekly one on one with her superior and then she would be off to the gym to let off some steam. The meeting was a necessary, albeit boring evil, and would clear her plate for another uneventful weekend.
A brisk knock on the heavy mahogany door signaled her entry to Mr. Stanton's office. He had long given up on her waiting for permission to enter, and had been expecting her in any case. Mr. Stanton shared many qualities with his door and all of the other decor of his room. He was hard, utilitarian and overall a deep shade of warm brown. There was no warmth in his eyes or his tight lipped smile, almost as if he had been carved out of wood himself. That he was smiling at all was a very foreign and foreboding change.
"I have a new assignment for you." He picked up a manilla file from his desk and handed it to her. "I want you to go to the South Pacific, to these coordinates." Latitude: -46.00615, Longitude: -84.16602 approximately 400 miles off of the coast of Chile. According to the terrain mapping of the ocean floor, there was some sort of extinct underground volcano.
"As exciting as this seems, what possible use could this be to the company..." She eyeballed him from over the open file. "Sir."
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