stinglikeabee (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
stinglikeabee) wrote2008-03-03 09:10 pm
stinglikeabee) wrote2008-03-03 09:10 pm
Entry tags:
Gee baby, ain't I good to me?
Was feeling a bit tetchy work still hadn't called back. I've only 10 days max before the deadline runs out and any chance of returning to the office vanishes in a puff of smoke. This is all too upsetting, and I couldn't think of anything better than to go out and busy myself. So: new haircut and 3 used Ella Fitzgerald CDs. The latter includes the second Ella/Louis Armstrong collaboration, featuring one of my favourite interpretations of 'I Won't Dance', and cheering me up considerably. Back in uni, this was the song me and the (crazy) roomie would sing to when we made dinner on weeknights. It's such a fun, silly song with the power to set aside our petty differences for the moment, if only to giggle at Louis half-growling/half-crooning 'merci beaucoup'. Ahhh, the magic of those two.
I'm also looking forward to chilling out to Ella's 1979 live Newport Jazz CD - a double disc album that sells on Amazon.com for nearly $20 and one I bought for $7 only (all the CDs were this price!).
Enough with this wistful blather. I present the next chapter in the unnamed ficlet. Good gravy, it took 1,000 words for Simon to go to the subway. What's next, 2,000 words for him in the lavy? Hmm...
I'm also looking forward to chilling out to Ella's 1979 live Newport Jazz CD - a double disc album that sells on Amazon.com for nearly $20 and one I bought for $7 only (all the CDs were this price!).
Enough with this wistful blather. I present the next chapter in the unnamed ficlet. Good gravy, it took 1,000 words for Simon to go to the subway. What's next, 2,000 words for him in the lavy? Hmm...
The doors pulled apart and Simon stepped behind two women talking to each other in low voices. There was something about the underground that fostered silence. He always thought it had something to do with the old posters yellowing on the brick walls, extolling the virtues of tight lips. The train doors hissed behind them, and Simon moved towards the far edge of the platform. He waited until the air stopped buzzing, then dropped onto the tracks before anyone could notice.
His footsteps landed with a metallic thud, and Simon raced on with a hand on the tunnel's walls. The vibrations of the 8.45am train grumbled under his touch, making him lose focus momentarily. The spot he was searching for was 200, 150, 100 metres away. C'mon, he thought, you've done this before.
The rumbling noise sounded closer. Simon held onto his hat and jumped to his right. The momentum was good, and he settled into the tiny alcove. This time he remembered to pull back the briefcase when the train whooshed pass, and shut his eyes to avoid the clouds of dust. When that was over, he gave a sigh and took off the hat, wiping his brow off a sleeve. When had this ever been considered fun? He made a note to ask for more normal dropoffs in his report.
Bowing his head, he stepped into the larger space originally intended as a resting place for the construction workers who built the railway. There was a stone ledge that served as a seat and a bare lightbulb protruding from the ceiling. Simon held up his wrist. He was a few minutes early. No matter, he--
He felt a heavy, sharp pain explode at the back of his head and only realised he'd been beaned when his eyes met the stone floor. His last thought was that of the extra amount of paperwork he'd now have to fill out.
When he came to, the watch showed it was close to 9.30am. Simon sat up, groaned at the dull throbbing, and patted his coat. His wallet and briefcase was still on him. So was the business card. 'What the hell,' he breathed. Predictably, there was no answer. He considered his options. There was the meeting with the boss in thirty minutes where he was expected to follow up with last week's developments. Or he could skip that and track back to find the bastard who knocked him out. How in blazes did he allow this to happen?
Was someone following him? Did someone lie in wait for the chance to jump him in the alcove?
Nothing seemed to be missing. Then what was that for?
The anger that bubbled up was promptly squashed deep down. Best go on with plans and head to the meeting. If this was a sick joke by the client, then he'd need the help of work to get his own back.
He unwrapped the scarf around his neck. No blood. He figured that was good. Anything that broke the skin needed that bloody form 824-E and a medical checkup with all the bloody questioning that entailed. And he hadn't decided whether to go public with the card business yet. Could this be connected? His heartbeat quickened. For some reason he wasn't willing to think of the possibility, and banished the thought.
Gingerly he picked himself up, dusting off the dirt. The tough part now was picking up on when the next train would pass by. Goddamnit. He gritted his teeth and prepared to jump.
His footsteps landed with a metallic thud, and Simon raced on with a hand on the tunnel's walls. The vibrations of the 8.45am train grumbled under his touch, making him lose focus momentarily. The spot he was searching for was 200, 150, 100 metres away. C'mon, he thought, you've done this before.
The rumbling noise sounded closer. Simon held onto his hat and jumped to his right. The momentum was good, and he settled into the tiny alcove. This time he remembered to pull back the briefcase when the train whooshed pass, and shut his eyes to avoid the clouds of dust. When that was over, he gave a sigh and took off the hat, wiping his brow off a sleeve. When had this ever been considered fun? He made a note to ask for more normal dropoffs in his report.
Bowing his head, he stepped into the larger space originally intended as a resting place for the construction workers who built the railway. There was a stone ledge that served as a seat and a bare lightbulb protruding from the ceiling. Simon held up his wrist. He was a few minutes early. No matter, he--
He felt a heavy, sharp pain explode at the back of his head and only realised he'd been beaned when his eyes met the stone floor. His last thought was that of the extra amount of paperwork he'd now have to fill out.
When he came to, the watch showed it was close to 9.30am. Simon sat up, groaned at the dull throbbing, and patted his coat. His wallet and briefcase was still on him. So was the business card. 'What the hell,' he breathed. Predictably, there was no answer. He considered his options. There was the meeting with the boss in thirty minutes where he was expected to follow up with last week's developments. Or he could skip that and track back to find the bastard who knocked him out. How in blazes did he allow this to happen?
Was someone following him? Did someone lie in wait for the chance to jump him in the alcove?
Nothing seemed to be missing. Then what was that for?
The anger that bubbled up was promptly squashed deep down. Best go on with plans and head to the meeting. If this was a sick joke by the client, then he'd need the help of work to get his own back.
He unwrapped the scarf around his neck. No blood. He figured that was good. Anything that broke the skin needed that bloody form 824-E and a medical checkup with all the bloody questioning that entailed. And he hadn't decided whether to go public with the card business yet. Could this be connected? His heartbeat quickened. For some reason he wasn't willing to think of the possibility, and banished the thought.
Gingerly he picked himself up, dusting off the dirt. The tough part now was picking up on when the next train would pass by. Goddamnit. He gritted his teeth and prepared to jump.