Lipstick

What happened to the girl who had forty or fifty lipsticks lying around? More importantly what happened to that blue lipstick? It was such a gorgeous impractical color. And there was that perfect plummy red brown.....the color was called Rebellious and it was part of a promotion the cosmetic company had for a movie. She remembers the last time she used it. And the person who borrowed it. So she'll probably never see it again.

An excerpt from my novel! See what I did here to stretch the word count. Clever, no? No!

Some of the sentences are so long they lose their meaning! Enjoy.

Liz was very suprised and she gasped from this surprise. Her cat (a brown, black, tan and white colored cat whose front claws had been removed two years ago) was sitting and grooming herself on an ottoman that matched her brown floral side chair, but at the sound of the loud gasp the cat, whose name was Snitty that week, because Liz knew the cat didn't care what her name was so she changed it every week, jumped and hissed and ran to hide under Liz's bed in her bedroom. There was a new post. And it was a reallly fucked up post, not like when Liz was high and posted every recipe for banana bread that she could find on the internet on her own blog, to which Anne had a link.

This was another kind of fucked-up altogether. Here is the post just as it appeared:

"Redrum redrum Redrum redrumRedrum redrumRedrum redrumRedrum redrumRedrum redrumRedrum redrumRedrum redrumRedrum redrum
Redrum redrumRedrum redrumRedrum redrumRedrum redrum rum redrum rum redrum rum redrum rum redrum rum redrum rum redrum rum redrum murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murder murdurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Ha ha just kidding."

Ordinarily this would just be a lame morning after the too-long night out at the bars kind of post, and might be followed by some song lyrics from Dashboard Confessional or even REM, but instead of that it was a picture of Anne's car with the windshield smashed. The post had just been put up three minutes before Liz opened the page according to the timestamp at the bottom which said 7:46 pm and it was 7:49 pm at the time Liz was reading it, so you see what I mean? It could have been the wrong time but it was really weird that it was so close to the time it actually was. As if it wasn't freaky enough already. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. Something impelled her to reload the page, thinking this couldn't be right. This was a poor choice because when the page reloaded, the new post was gone. When she saw the post, two weeks old, about popcorn getting stuck in Anne's teeth every time she went to the movies, Liz cried. She knew she should call the police officer who had given her his card, she should call him right away. He was cute. The fact that she thought about how cute the cop was, and with in minutes of seeing that awful picture of Anne car, made Liz cry even harder. She cried for a good half hour. Then with swollen eyes and snotty nose, and still sobbing intermittently, Liz got her shit together enough to call Pete the cop. It seemed to her that either Anne had gone crazy and was hiding somewhere posting on her blog or the psycho killer who took her had her laptop, and somehow, her password to her Blogger account, but somebody Knew Something, and Liz hoped the something would change and it would be better than the not knowing, which she had been doing for so long now and didn't seem to be going too well.

Chauncey came to a difficult decision.

There were too many birds. In the apartment, that is. Not in the whole world, maybe, but then again the thought of all those birds, hell the number of birds at the park alone, made the tightness return to his chest. "But, no, this is enough," he said, eyeing the cages that lined the walls. The container of Avitrol 200 was waiting in the kitchen. The birds twittered and screeched. Chauncey thought maybe they were picking up his tension. Marbelle would be home from work in four hours. He had to do it now so he could begin cleaning up the dozens of tiny corpses. She will understand, he breathed deeply and believed it for a seond.

The monster hunter

Connie was filing, she was filing as usual, she was always filing. A young man nervously approached the desk.
"I'm starting today? At ten? I know I'm early." He was sweating but was not entirely unprepossessing in his polo shirt with a raffish turned up collar.
Just then Harold came out of his office. He raised his eyebrow and smiled expansively at the young man. "Hi there, how are you?" Turned to Connie. "Hi there, Connie, listen, I'm going to be out the rest of the afternoon." And then he was gone, the lobby door swinging behind him.

The young man was sweating more now. Connie smiled encouragingly and offered him a bottled water with the company logo. He accepted but didn't drink it. He sat down, she continued filing. Within ten minutes, the rest of the new hires assembled and their trainer swept them away.

========================
This is terrible, but I enjoyed writing it.

It wasn't just that his signature was difficult to read.

She had seen inscrutable handwriting before. It was that it looked like some other word than his name. Most vague signatures were a large capital followed by a line of varying straightness or a nice friendly scribble. His was loops, squiggles, the random right angle that could have formed letters but didn't. It seemed to signify more than a name or a mark of acknowledgement. It was a mark, it did something other than just being on the paper.

Something dark, something sinister and out of the ordinary. He was clearly the most evil CPA she had ever encountered.

Possible plotlines for the novel I'm not writing:

An efficiency expert comes into the workplace. There is tension and comedy.

Clarinda has internal conflict over relationships, reaches enlightenment at spring break.

A blogger is murdered. A hard boiled detective investigates.

A guy lives in a house that somebody used to live in, perhaps the house is haunted or there's a hidden treasure in the attic.

Sheila pisses and moans about her stupid job. Harriet, a co-worker, is promoted to be her supervisor and fires her.

Your dog hates you.

You know how you can tell? He doesn't play catch with his usual eagerness. He's just going through the motions. He rolls his eyes at you. You've never seen a dog do that before; you've never seen a dog smirk. He used to smile.

What went wrong? Like you don't know. It wasn't the 'operation', for dogs have poor memory. No, this hatred took extensive conditioning; he had to be annoyed by your singing thousands of times.

He watched you dress in stupid clothes, lie to your mother, try different recipes for the 'perfect madeleine' only to discover it's just a crappy, crumbly cookie -- which you then tried to feed to the poor dog. He didn't really want you to quit smoking, he just pretended to encourage you. Come to think of it, that was the first time he rolled his eyes at you. It's like, he won't say anything about what's bothering him, because he can't fucking talk. And the cat can't talk either and anyway he doesn't want to get in the middle of this. Kitty's been tense, chewing the houseplants, eschewing the litter box and defiling your favorite sneakers.