Lupigon?

She saw it as less of an image and more of a feeling:  a stocky beast on four limbs with leathery copper skin and matted fur so thick and coarse it looked like quills.  A thick ridged tail that certainly looked heavy enough to do more than swat away flies.  A head and face that looked as draconic as it did lupine, but the more she tried to remember it the more its features melted into uncertainty.  A proud creature, sure of its own ability; it struts when there is no danger, and stalks when there is.  Running with the pack or running alone, running in the city or running in the country, it makes no difference to this creature; it knows itself, and that is all that matters to it.

 

{Had this vision of a strange and kind of cool creature in my head and wrote it down quick.  Didn’t write as much as I should have because I lost the muse for it.  At least now it’s here so my memory might get jogged later.}

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Widgets

Let us discuss the situation.

I own a relatively small number of widgets.  While the number is not exactly frugal, it is small compared with the number of widgets others have, and the total number of widgets available for purchase.  My number is not small because I do not possess the ABILITY to buy more; a plethora of cheap widgets for the man on a budget are ever at the ready for consumption, and though cheap, their overall usefulness is not much less than one ten times its price.  I could double my stock right now if I so chose, and it would be a pittance to my pocketbook.  No, funding is not an object here.

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Believer – Scene 3m (Partial)

“Honestly?  Not really,” Toby smirks, watching the inevitable train wreck of a game and its final desperate moments.  He adds, “It’s still a dick move, though.”

“Only to the people who figure it out,” she retorts, smirking slyly.  “And most of them think it’s pretty funny, so it’s okay!”

“Honestly?  Not really.  But whatever.  You ever played a first-person shooter before?”

The gears in Cecile’s brain do not exist; it’s more of a mushy pile of grey stuff, really, but it still manages thought on occasion, and currently is “managing” the question of whether or not she has played a first-person shooter.  Like her previous debate with herself, the question to her is not so much if she has, so much as it is has she played one lately that would be in any way relevant?

“Honestly?  Not really,” she mimics, mirroring his tone as best she can.

“Want to?”

“Is the rest of the night going to be really awkward if I say no?”

“It might be really boring if you say no.”

“I’d better, then; boredom is the enemy.  Or, an enemy.  I don’t think it deserves a definite article quite yet.”

The man called Toby Jones nods, fishing in Jonas’ backpack for an extra controller and handing it to the woman called Cecile Smith.  “All right, Lesson Zero.  Hold it like this, with your fingers on the side here.  There you go; Lesson Zero is now complete.  Lesson One—“

 

{This should end Scene 3, which means now I get to sew it all together and polish it up.  That’ll be for another day, though.}

Serenity

Serenity.  “Peace, calm, or tranquility”.

A woman, standing on a lawn of green grass, amidst a sea of pink leaves in the air.  Her dress is green, a rich emerald, richer far than the grass around her, and her shirt white, wrinkled perhaps, but unsullied.  Her nut-brown hair blows in the wind, fluffy strands near her temples brushing her cheeks.  A modest pair of spectacles rest upon her nose, shiny with the faintest coats of sweat.  Her chest heaves up and down, but slows and slows until her breathing is at long last, inaudible.

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Believer Scrap 3

Ms. Cecile Smith does not have to endure soul-crushing 3-hour meetings twice a week.  Ms. Cecile Smith does not have a sexist egotistical lying hypocritical bigot of a boss.  Ms. Cecile Smith does not have a glass ceiling suffocating her upwards mobility.  Ms. Cecile Smith does not have twenty-five hours of unpaid overtime.  Ms. Cecile Smith does not have to file “Testing Procedure Specification” reports.  This is because Ms. Cecile Smith’s job is not important enough to have any of these things.

The title she would put on her resume, if she cared to update it, would be “Data Entry Clerk”.  This is the position she interviewed for two years ago, and this is an accurate description of her services to the corporate megalith.  She knows that Jupitech Systems & Service Inc. does not produce consumer electronics, but it manages inventory for a parent company which does.  She knows that if the inventory system was ever streamlined and brought into the 21st century, she would not have this job.  She does not know the exact likelihood of this actually happening.  She believes it to be low.

For nine and one half hours a day, minus a thirty-minute unpaid lunch, two fifteen-minute paid breaks, and an indeterminate amount of time spent in the bathroom which no superior can or will ever assess (also paid), Cecile’s job is to go to “The File”, take out “The Receipts”, and copy “The Numbers” onto “The Spreadsheet”.  She is not the only data entry clerk, and these are not the only receipts.  The spreadsheet is for “future reference” and “quality assurance”; she has been a part of several break room conversations that have made her wonder how many people above her pay-grade are even aware that the spreadsheet exists.  Or for that matter, how many people above her pay-grade are aware that she exists.

In short, Ms. Cecile Smith has in her opinion one of the best jobs in the company, not by value of importance, but by value of obscurity.

{Something I wrote up that I’ll likely start a scene with when I describe a normal day at work for Cecile.}