SampleSunday. From Can Job…

Poor Taylor. Her mother got her a PR job at Diptych Corporation, and she’s definitely in over her head . . .


“Taylor.” Basil wet his lips. “We should probably get together right after this. Are you free?”

Taylor nodded.

“Good. Meet me in my office. We have a lot to do. If you need lunch, we’ll order up from the cafeteria. I don’t usually eat lunch.”

She  nodded again.

The meeting dragged on.

Taylor’s notepad filled with scribbles. Hire photographer for press kit photos, check with corporate communications on list of press contacts, check with corporate communications on list of analysts, tradeshow back wall/customer quotes? She smiled at everyone and nodded her head until her neck ached. Fake it fake it fake it.

Finally it was over.

Everybody stood up.

“See you in a few minutes,” Basil reminded her as they were leaving.

“Sure thing.”

She turned toward her cubicle.

“Hey, protest girl.” It was Miles. He’d caught up with her and was speaking now just above a whisper, his lips close to her ear. “Blow him off.”

“I can’t blow him off. You heard Darryl.”

“Yeah. Darryl’s an idiot, too. But I’m telling you. Baz is going to dump his entire job onto you. He’s a lazy f**k and he’s spotted a sucker. That would be you.”

“Thanks, you’re a gem yourself. What are you even doing here? I didn’t think anarchists stooped to working for multi-national corporations.”

“This isn’t a job, it’s an infiltration.” He grinned at her. Ouch. He was very cute. His eyes were hazel in the middle and brown around the edges, and his hair curled out at the tops of his ears.

She looked away.

They were at her cubicle. She stepped inside and hesitated. She should be doing something, getting something, but what was there to get? Maybe . . . another pen.

Miles stood at the cubicle entrance, watching, seeing too much.

Taylor rounded her desk and opened the top drawer.

Miles stood aside to let her back out into the aisle. Aisle. Really a passageway, a beige fabric alley formed by the walls of her neighbor’s cubes.

She hesitated again.

“That way,” Miles pointed. “Turn left at the copier.”


“Yeah. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She went on to meet her fate . . .


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