Wednesday's Three Word Wednesday
The word prompts over at Three Word Wednesday are awry, blame and hiatus. A haiku and a flash fiction piece that are related, kinda. You lucky devils.
When things go awry,
and blame rests squarely on you,
take a hiatus
Watch Out for the Quiet Ones
Fitzsimmons’ life went awry at 7:18 a.m.; he now contemplated that life on the No. 5 express as it rumbled down the Van Wyck Expressway.
Prim, if not considered prissy, Fitzsimmons wore round horned-rimmed glasses that he felt matched both his shoes and his belt. The leather messenger bag, he thought, showed his impish nature.
Accountants like Fitzsimmons don’t rumble on the wild side. He knew what people thought. There would be no surprises left, no bedside boxes that contained handcuffs, rubber products, amyl nitrate, various lubes and lotions. There was no wild drinking binges, no gambling addictions for people to discover. No party girls, no dance clubs, no 3 a.m. lines of coke.
But there he was, on the bus, contemplating his crossover.
The program had worked better than expected; $1.56 million diverted into an offshore account. His affairs were set in order.
“The blame rests squarely with me,” read the memo, delivered to the partner’s conference room at 7:18 a.m., complete with bagels, cream cheese, lox, fresh-squeezed orange juice (the spread had set him back plenty; he considered saving the receipt for tax purposes, and laughed). “I would like to take this opportunity to announce my extended hiatus with the firm.”
Inside the bag were swim trunks and shirt in matching tropical patterns, polarized sunglasses, his first pair of flip-flops - and one first-class ticket to somewhere warm and low-key.
When things go awry,
and blame rests squarely on you,
take a hiatus
Watch Out for the Quiet Ones
Fitzsimmons’ life went awry at 7:18 a.m.; he now contemplated that life on the No. 5 express as it rumbled down the Van Wyck Expressway.
Prim, if not considered prissy, Fitzsimmons wore round horned-rimmed glasses that he felt matched both his shoes and his belt. The leather messenger bag, he thought, showed his impish nature.
Accountants like Fitzsimmons don’t rumble on the wild side. He knew what people thought. There would be no surprises left, no bedside boxes that contained handcuffs, rubber products, amyl nitrate, various lubes and lotions. There was no wild drinking binges, no gambling addictions for people to discover. No party girls, no dance clubs, no 3 a.m. lines of coke.
But there he was, on the bus, contemplating his crossover.
The program had worked better than expected; $1.56 million diverted into an offshore account. His affairs were set in order.
“The blame rests squarely with me,” read the memo, delivered to the partner’s conference room at 7:18 a.m., complete with bagels, cream cheese, lox, fresh-squeezed orange juice (the spread had set him back plenty; he considered saving the receipt for tax purposes, and laughed). “I would like to take this opportunity to announce my extended hiatus with the firm.”
Inside the bag were swim trunks and shirt in matching tropical patterns, polarized sunglasses, his first pair of flip-flops - and one first-class ticket to somewhere warm and low-key.
Comments
Great story!
unless...
we... duel?
Paul: wasn't trying ot make him likable, just complex.
R&R: glad to have you back out there.
TC: You know, I'd have a drink with him, too