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Background Figures
November 16, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, novels, Poetry, reading, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Art, Boss, Child, Convict, Dream, Museum, Work | by davidbdale | 7 comments
Artists dream, but not as we do. They live in the disassembled mosaic we escape to only in sleep. When they say: I had a dream, they might mean: the teapot told me or: I imagined. When we say: I’ve been dreaming about you, it’s because we’re too timid to say: My fantasy self penetrates and partially devours your fantasy self. Try it. Once should be enough. So I wonder: is this a dream I can share? I was at the office, right, but not the office? More like a gallery? And my boss was a painting? Not the whole painting, just one of the background figures you might not notice if you were listening to those headphones and the audio-guide told you to move along? Which I was? Because it was my boss’s voice over the headphones? And then I realized it was your voice? And that you were my boss? And learning that I tried to quit, but you said I hadn’t begun to do the job you had hired me to do so I couldn’t quit, because quitting implied that the job had failed me whereas it was me who had failed? That the job would have to quit me? So I cut you out of the painting and devoured you? And the guard had me arrested because you can misunderstand the paintings but you can’t eat them, but the judge didn’t want to convict me because his son hadn’t done his job either, the son’s job that is, but the jury was background people from other paintings, and they were unsympathetic because a lot of people had failed to notice them? So I’ve been sentenced to be in a painting where you’ll never find me? And all I want is for you to find me?
Copyright © November 16, 2006
Boss’s Girl
October 23, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, Poetry, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Boss, Business, Office, Violence, Work | by davidbdale | 3 comments
Stepping from the long car outside his office building, Number2 straightened the crease of his trouser leg, freeing it from the tongue of his shoe, and turned toward the private entrance. The freed pants leg flapped like a penitent in the wind. He considered his reflection in a mirrored wall and wondered could the shortness of his stride cost him a promotion? He must have meant pennant. Number2 delivered a full-armed slap, putting his shoulder into the effort, across the upper half of the doorman’s face. Morning, Jimmy, he said. Morning, sir, said the doorman. Boss in yet, Jimmy? Yes, sir, said the doorman. Bright and early. Number2 punched the doorman just above the belt buckle. Did I ask you when she got in, Jimmy? No, sir, said the doorman. No, sir, you didn’t. Number2 walloped the receptionist with a fist to the side of her head and picked up his overnight packages. Morning, darling. Morning, sir. With a knee brought swiftly from behind, he caught the elevator operator unaware between the hams and slammed his body against the wall. Eleven, Jack. Eleven, sir? Number2 banged Jack’s head against the cluster of buttons 21 through 29. Boss in? Number2 asked the boss’s girl. She’s waiting for you, sir. Number2 tipped her chair, spilled the girl against a bank of cabinets, and entered the boss’s office. Number1 was standing on her desk. Her head and shoulders disappeared through an open frame in the ceiling. Need help, boss? Asked Number2. Number1 clocked Number2 with a quick kick to the head. I think I got it, said Number1. Number2 crashed to the floor and lay there quietly, awaiting further instructions. He looked up at the boss’s legs, silently considering. His lip was beginning to swell. Thanks for coming in early, she said.
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