Greetings Veillee people! We're excited to hear your feedback on today's submission. It's a dreamy little tale, which will have all you artist-trapped-in-office types cheering from your cubicles.
The weekend is nearly here. Until then, let Kacy Muir sweep you away from your desk and that creepy boss of yours. Just make sure he or she is not hovering over your shoulder...
Only Anarchist (Avengers) Are Pretty
by Kacy Muir
Sharon dreamt the night before. An apocalyptic fairytale with people running out of a building in droves, steadfast and opposite the direction she had been.
When she woke, she felt satisfied. It was 6:45 A.M. on Friday – the only day the office was given permission to dress casually.
Sharon traded in her usual dress and suit attire for something she was comfortable in– something the old Sharon would not punch her in the face for wearing — a gray sweater covering an O.A.A.P. handmade shirt, black jeans, and Doc Martin boots.
Sharon sat at her desk, directly in front of a large office. The door to the office was closed but within the room she heard her boss muted by a woman with a cackling laugh–the kind of laugh that could draw blood.
She blotted her lips in boredom, making a popping sound that echoed throughout the office.
As Sharon rotated in her chair, she passively spent the day thinking about getting out of this place. She became someone she never thought she would– a yes girl to everyone but herself.
She spent most of her days saying yes to her slimy boss Vinny Spinoza – doing all the deeds necessary to keep her job as his executive assistant. But there were some things she was not willing to do.
His advances and his all-too-uncomfortable stares had grown to not just upset her, but to create this notion that the only way he could be stopped was to end him for good. As if she had been some feminine avenger and he, Doctor Arthur Light — entrapping her in darkness.
Sharon really wanted to tell her boss to go screw. She wanted to dial his pregnant wife and say that her beloved husband, instead of doing over-time, was in fact, doing every two-leg opening in this goddamn place.
Years before, Sharon was using words with vigor. Busy banding with her brothers and sisters in the darkened Corner House as they recited slam poetry back and forth over a pint or two.
Over the years, she turned into a babbling baby. One concerned with the expectation of others. It was a disappointing blow to her creativity, but she had to pay the bills. Without a family or a home to call her own, she was her only source of solace.
But, once that notion inside of her began to develop, she became something so much more. As if in all her post punk glory she was shining with the truth and knowledge that seemed to surpass others around her.
When Sharon walked into the office this morning, she had done so with a purpose unknown to every frantic passerby on the street. But for her, she had every reason in the world to continue ahead.
Today, she would burn this place to the ground and with it, Vinny Spinoza.
Read more about Miss Muir at The Matchbox.