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Author: Greg Clarkin

Flaming Out

“Okay, “ Roz said, from her Zoom box on the big screen at the front of the conference room. “Everyone on the in-office team ready to go?”

I glanced around the big, oval table. There were only three of us. Hardly a team, more like a gathering of a few random people. 

The Goat Life

The sound of the doorbell broke my nice post-holiday slumber. I ignored it on the assumption Terri or one of the kids would separate themselves from whatever screen they were attached to and answer it. 

The second ding reinforced my belief that no one in the house but me answers a ringing doorbell. I was off the couch and down the hallway when I caught sight of a man peering into one of the little side windows at the door like a nosy neighbor. 

Party On

The big night had arrived. I checked the equipment neatly laid out on my desk. Welder’s mask, and the respirator to wear under it. A dozen medical face masks in case the welder’s mask and/or respirator malfunctioned. A four gallon jug of hand sanitizer. Medical booties to put over my shoes.

I was all set for the Holiday Office Party 2020 style.

Lights Out

The last of the lights were up, the halls were officially decked and I stood back to admire my handiwork. I was about three seconds into the admiration when Terri walked into the room.

“I don’t know,” she said, “it seems…lacking.”

I glanced around at the more than seven-hundred light bulbs spread out around the downstairs, not to mention the ones outside, and tried to see where the holiday decorations were lacking.

The Silent Type

Wilson appeared at the door to my office and placed his hands on the chair that was blocking the entrance.

“Why is there a chair in your doorway?” he asked.

“For visitors to sit in,” I said.

I turned back to pecking away at the keyboard and surfing the web. I checked on prices for the diamond earrings I was thinking of buying Terri. But I was hesitant. How did I know they weren’t made in some knockoff factory in China? Or maybe by a kid with a 3D printer in Florida?

Door Busted

It was 3:50 when the horn sounded. A.M. 

What the hell was Wilson doing laying on the horn at this hour?

I raced to the front door frazzled, fumbled with the lock, and finally got the damn thing undone. I opened the door and yelled into the darkness like a madman.

“Enough with the horn.”