Story-a-Day. It’s never going to end, is it?


Tomorrow may be the last day, but it doesn’t feel like it. In any event, yesterday, I scribbled the beginning of a story in my notebook. The prompt was to write the story you’ve wanted to write. I think I’ve done that. Perhaps I haven’t written it well or in the way I originally envisioned, but I always write the story I want to.

So, I wrote about a 12-year-old girl who finds a secret door in the floor of her bedroom, and being a sensible girl, she’d making a plan and taking notes before she ventures in. As a kid I used to daydream about finding a secret passage. Maybe when I figure out what is on the other side of the door, I’ll share the story here.

Today’s prompt was about going back to a story you wrote earlier in the story-mad month and write it from another character’s POV. Oh, which story to choose? Well, for better or for worse, I chose a recent story, the one about Barb at the office. That was written in third-person, and I thought about writing it in first-person from Barb’s point-of-view but decided against it. It’s hard to explain why, but I didn’t want to give too much away about Barb. Instead, I wrote first person from a secondary character in that scene–Pam. She put a lot of effort into those sandwiches!

Thank you for reading.

I try not to lose the sandwiches, but everything happens so fast. I see the boss, of course, but I don’t see the blur hurtling at him from the elevator. In an instant, shiny and smooth McGabe pitches backwards and into me and my sandwiches. My morning work ends up on the carpet or on us. The blur is Barb, of course. It’s five minutes before the meeting. I should know to keep an eye out for her five minutes before anything. She’s always in a terror about being late.

Ugh. That ham looked tasty this morning on my cutting board, but on McGabe’s shoe it’s grotesque. Why do I even eat ham? I’m going to give it up.

Barb says something about the Japanese delegation. I hate thinking about that day. I can’t think about Japan now without wincing. Barb!

I’m going to help clean up this mess. It’s Barb’s fault, but they’re my sandwiches. My lovely, perfectly arranged sandwiches with fresh tomatoes from my garden and that pricey bread from the downtown bakery. Everyone looks forward to the food I bring to these wastes of time meetings. Back when HR was being cut and it was between me and Lila Gilbert-Parks, they remembered my sandwiches and my casseroles and my muffins. I know it’s not all about food, but it isn’t not about food either.

My poor sandwiches. There’s Tyrone looking at us. He’s going to be sad. He tells me all the time he only comes to meetings for my sandwiches. Now what’s he going to talk to me about?

And damn that McGabe. He has to point out this tiny, it is tiny, bit of green stuck to my skirt. I don’t even like parsley, but it makes the tray look pretty, I think. Presentation is important. Too bad Barb’s never learned that.

So, maybe I won’t clean up the mess. Housekeeping has better ways of getting mayo out of carpet than I do, but I’m not going to forget my tray. It’s a good silver tray. I could hit someone upside the head and it wouldn’t have a dent. Not that I would hit anyone, of course.

Poor Barb. She’s too old for this nonsense. I wonder if she sits in her office and cries.

McGabe forgets I’m here. He’s stomping off to the little boy’s room, probably to wash that mayo off his shoe. I’m going to just slip down the hall for a minute. There’s no rush to get the meeting now. I’m not nosy or anything. I’m going to ask Barb if she’s okay. I know. I’ll ask her if she wants me to tell her happens at the meeting.

I hope she offered to pay for the sandwiches. It’s the least she could do.
Oh, I don’t want to embarrass her if she’s crying. Huh. I’ve never noticed that sticker on her door before. It’s like she’s twelve. Strange though. I can’t hear anything in there. This door is pretty solid, but I’m head of HR. I know how to listen through a door.

It’s completely silent. Maybe she’s not even here. I guess I’ll go tell the others. But I’ll walk, not run. I know this is an office, not a playground. You’re an idiot if you can’t tell the difference.

P.S. I realize writing in first-person seems to be popular the days, but while I don’t mind reading first-person, I’m not a big fan of writing it. Nonetheless, it’s good to try something different.

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