I am a pixel-stained technopeasant wretch!
Believe it or not, this story was published. It's pretty bad. Readers’ World magazine, Australia, June 2000. Why did it get published? The "editor" started the magazine as a business venture, and I think her editorial skills weren't as strong as her business skills. That said, the magazine lasted a few years, their payrates declining and their subscription gimmicks soaring, before folding..

My Internal Editor's fingers twitch towards the blue pencil every time I read it. It's so very Mary Sue, and maybe that's why I love the storyline. This story is a guilty pleasure and semi-autobiographical.

I have far better pieces sitting in my trunk, but because this was published and I was paid for it, I'm posting it here for your reading pleasure {schnurk}. If you choose not to read this (or after you decide to suffer through), go read the novel Darkside sksperry posted for IPSTW Day. If you love it, like the rest of us do, hit the donate button.

My story's short: 2600 words.



The Room by HWK
She had been hired as a junior secretary, but not to anyone in particular. Instead, she had joined the secretaries' pool, and did the work whenever it was handed to her. And after a year or two with the firm, she and another junior secretary were moved to The Room. The Room was located on the third floor, quite a way from the pool. This, they were told, was to make it more convenient for those whose offices were on the third floor and who they, nor their personal secretaries, had time to run up and down wheneverthey needed anything typed, or stapled, or destroyed. But The Room was so far out of the way from the other offices, she felt it may have been more convenient to run downstairs after all.
For a while, she and the other junior secretary (whose name she had forgotten) had plenty of work to do. They had their own inbox in the row of inboxes in the third floor reception area. They checked it hourly, gathered any work left there, and retreated to The Room to type the letters and reports of the High and Mighty.
Unlike the pool, nobody ever dropped by with a last minute request. In fact, nobody ever dropped by.
Perhaps because the little room was so hard to find. They had stuck them in a small office at the back of the building, the only place available. Granted, it was on the third floor, but to reach it, you had to go down the back stairs to the landing, then there was another door, and down the hallways, then turn left (or was it right?), and then go on down the hall, and then there was another half flight of stairs.... One morning it took her an entire hour of backtracking and exploring before she found it. On her way out, she drew arrows on the pale tiles of the floor with pencil. Even then, she had to backtrack again and make a few corrections. But after a week or two, she had learned the way.
The Room was barely large enough to fit one large (enough) desk, two chairs, two typewriters and one plant. Luckily, there was a large window at one end that looked out over the alley behind the building, so she never felt boxed in.
Later, she would design a pleasant shade for the bare light bulb overhead. And maybe a lamp for the desk, if the single power point in the skirting worked.
She didn't like the other junior secretary.
And the junior secretary didn't like her job. "But it pays the bills," she claimed, snapping her gum. "I've put up with worse."
She felt very plain next to the other secretary, who was curly blonde, shapely, and wore fire engine red lipstick. Compared to her, her own clothes were drab, her brown hair straight and severe, and she never, ever chewed gum.

* * *

"Can you finish those letters for me?" the other secretary asked her one day.
"I've got this review to finish..."
"But I've got to go to lunch, and the boss wants them done and mailed today." She spat out her gum into the trash can, and promptly shoved another stick in her red gashed mouth.
She stared at the piece of paper in her typewriter. "Can't you wait until you've finished the letters before going to lunch? You've only got three more to go..."
The other secretary was gathering her things. "Sorry, honey. But I promised I'd meet a friend, and his ship's leaving this afternoon. I'll be back before you know it. Okay, honey? Have fun." And the door closed behind her.
She only sighed. The other junior secretary knew many sailors. She'd go out on the town with them, regardless of what time it was, and they'd be gone for an hour or two, or sometimes a half a day. No doubt he bought her lunch or tea, and she'd give him a cuddle and a kiss, and most likely something more, and he'd probably give her a bit of fun, and maybe a nasty rash, or even another souvenir to remember him by. She wondered how often the secretary had been down dark forgotten alleys. She had known her twice to be absent for a few days with what she claimed were 'woman troubles', but she knew better, and suspected something else...
Moving her chair over to the other secretary's typewriter, she quickly finished the letters, not bothering to correct mistakes. After all, it would only be fair to complete the job to the same exacting standards that the other secretary would.
She stuffed the letters into their envelopes, addressed them, and delivered them to the mail room.
On her way back, she checked the inbox, but it was empty.
Upon returning to The Room, she finished the review, snuggled it in its folder for delivery, and sat at the window to daydream
.
* * *

She never noticed when the other junior secretary left. It's just that one day, she noticed that she had not seen her for several days or was it weeks? Fired, died, moved to another city... who knew? It was all the same to her. Not that she minded being 'deserted'; the work had slacked off, and she could easily handle it all by herself. As long as she got the work done, and she got paid every Friday, she didn't care.
To give herself more space, she moved the chair out, and left it in the hallway near a busy office. Next time she passed, the chair was gone. The heavy typewriter found itself shoved off to the top of a dusty filing cabinet in a filing room, that she was rather certain nobody really used any more. She brought in another plant, and even debated whether or not she could replace the venetian blinds with curtains. Not that anyone would care. She felt as if she needed to make The Room hers, and hers alone.
The alley outside remained the same, even through the seasons. The bricks of the other buildings were red, the grass growing through the pavement was dull green, and everything else was city color. Not much excitement.
It must have been her imagination, for the work pile in her inbox grew smaller and smaller. Soon, she found herself with less and less to do.
Time found her down at the secretaries' pool, politely asking if there was any extra work she could take in her 'rare moment of idleness'.
A secretary whom she didn't know shook her head. "Sorry, dearie. We hired a temporary steno girl when we thought Harriet was going to be out all week with her dying mother. Harriet came back yesterday, but we can't dismiss the girl until Friday...."
She sighed. No work. What was she going to do?
The next day, there was nothing in her inbox all day. She spent the day staring at the ceiling, the pale walls, and even the floor she had swept yesterday in her boredom. The view outside remained the same, and she could only fuss over her plants for so long.
Waiting that seemed to be all she ever did. The tedium bored her, but she knew she'd have work enough soon, if they remembered her. She felt she couldn't leave early, just in case they had some work for her to do. It wouldn't do to be absent when they needed her the most. She was afraid that if she stepped away from the building between nine and five (not counting lunch), that whatever fate happened to the other secretary would happen to her.
So she occupied The Room, wondering what to do.
Monday, she bought a newspaper, and even considered buying one of those women's magazines--not that she ever had any interest in them--to give her mind something to do. SHe needed something when she didn't have an occasional job between those idle times.
News of some war somewhere in Europe, mayor opens some new monument, small rosebushes could liven the common woman's garden, and vinegar was good for keeping away aphids, hemlines would rise again, or so predicted fashion, and some woman was pouring her heart out to the advice columnist. Nothing that interested her. Although, stocks were reported to be doing well. She idly toyed with the idea of investing her small savings. Banks were fine and well, but something stirred in her. It could very well be to her benefit to invest, and earn some interest.
Her good fortune of a steadily paying job would not last. Sooner or later, somebody would notice her, and question her presence. Or maybe there would be cutbacks, and she, being a junior secretary, would lose her job. Her job was not secure. It would be best to have another source of income.
The next day, instead of eating lunch, she did her homework, and looked into exactly what investment was, and how it could work for her.

* * *

She didn't know how long her inbox had been gone. In truth, she hadn't checked it in a little while, not that it would have mattered. She hadn't typed a single thing for longer than she could remember. When she went to reception, she noticed it seemed a little bit different, maybe some chairs were moved around, or something. The inboxes had been shuffled around, and she just couldn't seem to find hers. She did notice a few more boss type people. She even passed one in the hallway. He, busy dictating on the run to a secretary, never noticed her. She knew the secretary, but doubted even the secretary would have stopped to pass the day, had she had the time.
She shrugged. Oh well. As long as she still received her pay on Friday, and there was enough left over after all the bills were paid to buy a few more shares on the stock market, she didn't mind.

* * *
She may have been considered unnoticeable, but she didn't want to be forgettable, at least, as much as that someone someday would notice her, question her presence, realize that she didn't belong there, and saw her cast out of a job.
She took to carrying important looking folders and papers here and there, and managed to wander through the secretaries' pool at least once a day, smiling at the nameless familiar faces, as they smiled back at her. She never actually accomplished anything, but as long as she looked to be doing something, nobody questioned her, or even stopped her. As far as she knew, her future there was secure.
News: war still raged in Europe, albeit in a different part. Hemlines had dropped, and skirts were fuller. The new recipe for apple pie used cream cheese for a smooth texture. Stocks were down, but were expected to rise with the onset of the holiday seasons. Another woman in the advice column wondered if she should leave her ne'er do well husband, and the serial was terrible.
She enjoyed reading the serials, but recently, they hadn't been very good. I could do better, she told herself.
Why didn't she do better?
She realized her eyes were looking at the typewriter. She honestly couldn't remember when she had last used it. She did admit she occasionally felt pangs of guilt over being paid to type, and not actually typing anything.
Rolling a piece of paper into the machine, she sat down to think of a good story. It might have been better to jot it down in her steno pad first. As long as she was typing, she felt her existence in the firm was justified.

* * *

This one had been even better than the last. Even though she had written the story, it still gave her a thrill to read it in print for the first time. Naturally, she published under a pseudonym; it would not do for anyone at the firm to recognise her name. Reading to the end of the daily installment, she folded up the paper, put a fresh sheet in the typewriter, and started the writing for the day.
All her work she did straight out of memory. She never kept any copies of her stories around The Room. Even when she went out to lunch, she tucked up all her work in a folder and took it with her. In fact, she did keep copies of important looking work that she was halfway through, lying around the desk. She even rotated them weekly, to look fresh and honest. She never knew when another soul would enter The Room. She did not want them to suspect a thing.
No one ever did.
She continued to stroll and smile through the secretaries' pool. She even popped down to the mail room to check for mail for some of the big bosses on the third floor, and even delivered it to their inboxes if there was some. During lunch she'd stop by the post office, and mail her stories to newspapers and magazines; she did not dare send them through the mail room at work. She engaged a post office box, to collect returned manuscripts or better yet paychecks. (Her landlady was a mean old codger, and if she suspected her tenant was making more money than she appeared to, she would certainly raise the rent.)
Every cent from her writing was invested, and nearly half her paycheck from the firm. The remains served to pay her bills, and buy food. She could have afforded to buy new clothes, but again, her landlady would suspect, so she maintained a look of a single woman in poverty, and bought her clothes second hand. Occasionally, she donated to charity, just to make herself feel like she was doing something honest, for once.
One day, she had trouble getting to work. The crowds pushed up against the barricades police threw around the firemen who cleaned up after the battle against a large fire. The building that the firm was housed in, and a few around it, had been gutted by a terrible fire.
She recognized one of the secretaries from the pool in the crowd. Sidling up to her, she asked, "What happened?"
The secretary shrugged. "Gas leak, they say."
"Oh," she said, staring at the blacked red bricks. She hugged her bag with its empty folder tightly to her chest. "So, what's going to happen now?"
The secretary shrugged bitterly. "Rebuild again, I suspect. Though things are going to be tight. I wouldn't be surprised if more than a few of us weren't 'hired back', if you catch my meaning."
"I see," she said, and she pushed off through the crowd without even a goodbye.

* * *

She told her landlady about the fire, and gave it as her excuse that she'd need to find another place to live. The landlady demanded another week's rent, in lieu of a week's notice. She shrugged her off, and told her to talk to her tomorrow.
She went to her room, packed her bags. She did not own much, other than her clothes, a few precious items, and all her manuscripts. She left in a taxi when the landlady was off doing laundry, and couldn't stop her.
She found a place to live that day. The address was safe, if unfashionable, and the rent was only a little bit more. Instead of a single room, she had a whole apartment, complete with private bathroom and kitchen.
"I must apologize," the landlord said. "It is a little bit small, and can get quite hot in the summertime."
"That's okay," she replied. "I work best in small rooms. I'll take it."
She set down her bags and mentally wrote down a list of all the things she needed. He handed her the keys, and she caught his arm. "Tell me, where around here would be the best place to buy a typewriter?"

The End