The Writer's Notes

An always pencil on paper, his nick. For if there weren’t a greasy near death pencil pegged upside his right earlobe, a moment of shock would eventually find it on his left or in his hand, of course. He haunts my dreams, he does. The scribbles write original scores for my office day-dreams; for whenever am not working or working, the rascal pencil is all I can see through the see-through cubicle walls. Scribble doodle. Doodle doodle. We gift a fly-size security camera to the voyeur cop guys; conveniently choleric, sits the bug, capturing his scribbles over his shoulder. Zoom in, dammit. We swat the inefficient fly that dies in a scratchy lemmego.  Gossip creeps until I could smell the alcohol on the vine. Oh god; now someone’s drinking at work. I rummage the employment files and let out an evil guffaw, dangling his folder in the air. His job describes him as the writer. A legal topple, as I feel my ass in my throat; can’t blame a writer for writing. Smells. I look out the see-through and find a couple of hundred ass-heads staring back at me. I turn to the writer and he scribbles more, grinning as he does.

The day after then, I receive a note that sends my skin temporarily out the rest of me. It’s from the writer. He invites me to tea over a couple of notes. In minutes, my cube is a die of minced people, crushed into every cornery shape, all their eyes swooping hawked at the note. Some say I should destroy the note like it never arrived. Some think I could rather eat my balls than do that. Decisions decisions. I fight my way to steal a ‘go away!’. My room empties and still feels of the reminiscent meat. I decide to sweat copiously and die before I meet the writer. The former works like Houdini. Death wouldn’t bloody come. And the clock rips the day towards tea time.

I leave traces of sweat that seep by my boots as I walk up to his desk.

‘Umm. Tea, Mr. Writer?’

‘Sure!’

As we hop-trot up the stairs to the tea canisters, he smiles like a darling, while my fake smile freaks him out.

‘So what’s this all about, huh?’

‘What?’

‘Theeee…ummm…aa...you know…theeeaaa…the notes.’

‘Oh these?’

He seems to grab his groin as he struggles his way into his pockets. A thousand notes he sets afloat before me. He sheds weight like fat people on television. A flappy wind, as untimely as a reset clock. Within seconds, he is invisible. The writer has vanished into his notes. I reach out to catch a piece of him.

‘I hate my job.’

It told him what to do. For the second time in two days, I felt like my ass.