Office Games

The office basketball tournament was what you’d expect from a group of copy-room athletes:  pale, hairy, sagging skin in tight shorts and faded jerseys.  The final round was a battle between Accounting and Acquisitions and the excitement could be seen in the players’ body language.  Tom Dresdon angrily picked his nose.  Jerry Spitzer let out an involuntary fart.  It wasn’t until the two-minute warning that Accounting’s Brian McDonald decided to pep his team to victory to avoid losing a bet that would’ve involved red lipstick and a ballerina tutu.

“C’mon Accounting!  Kick their asses!” Amber Granger screamed from the sideline, her voice a cross between a coyote’s wail and breaking glass.  She was Brian’s office assistant and after-hours mistress, a redheaded tart who never wore the right shade of blush.  No good at making coffee or typing or scanning or anything useful, she nevertheless moved up the ranks not only because of her office dalliances but also because of the way she befriended the wives of those she conquered.

Before Brian could shoot a pair of free-throws to win the game, a time-out was called.  Brian cockily walked to the sideline, flexing his flabby biceps for his wife in the stands above.  She blew him a kiss.

“Why is she here?” Amber whispered to him, suddenly appearing by his side, a cup of cold liquid in her hand.  “Today was supposed to be just us.”

“Look, I’ll make it up to you Am,” he said, taking the cup and splashing the liquid in his face.  He let out a yell and clutched his eyes.

“Oops.  I guess I mixed up the water and lemon-aid,” she said, slinking back to her seat, leaving Brian too blind to make his free-throws but making the real winner of the office games crystal clear.


About lacolem1

I'm a first-year Physics graduate student who spends his long drives from Mississippi to Texas thinking of new ideas and writing/enacting stories and publishable content in his head. I've been a comic book geek since I was 12, an internet philosopher since 18, and a wannabe media inventor since five minutes in the future. I love the beauty of short form fiction a la Maupassant, the ticklish excitement of flowery prose a la Bradbury, and the strict directness of blunt imagery a la Hemingway. Alas, this is countered by my love for bad black-and-white sci-fi from the 50s, bad Benetar-esque pop music from the 80s, and Bridezillas and the Real Housewives of Atlanta. I'd like to think I have a natural talent for words and storytelling, but I guess it's up to you guys to decide
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