An Attempt at Fiction

I’ve never written fiction but have always been incredibly impressed by those who can. Over the past week, I took a turn from my typical Jodi Picoult and devoured two books by Liane Moriarty  There is a joy in escaping into a great fiction – especially one that provides the viewpoints of all of the characters.

A few months ago, I submitted my first attempt at fiction to a contest with Writers Digest. It didn’t win or even place but I thought I would share it since it is now just sitting, dejected, in my Writing Folder on my computer.  The prompt was a picture of a woman peering over a cubicle wall.

The Stapler

I remember the day that life started showing promise.  It started simply enough. I needed my stapler. I reached into the drawer without looking. The stapler sits to the left-hand of the pens, to the right of tape. Always. I reached in to feel an empty space.

A second blind attempt yielded the same results. I looked to the left. My pens were lined neatly next to the tape. It was confirmed. The stapler was missing.

Many people at this point would have surveyed their desk. Forgetting to place the stapler in the drawer would have been an easy answer. Unless you are me. I don’t forget…Ever. This is what happens when you’ve been raised by a mother with an obsessive disorder. You don’t forget to put things away. Bad things happen. The memory of those things quickened my breath and I felt the impending panic attack. “Don’t lose it,” I whispered to myself. “It’s just a stapler.” Yep…it was just a dish…or just a jacket. It didn’t matter what “it” was. What mattered was that “it” wasn’t in its place.

I recalled the last meeting with my therapist. “You have the control now. She does not. What will you do with that?” I closed my eyes and blew the air out. I felt the tingling in my hands begin to lessen, as the panic started to subside. I have control, I thought. I have control.  

It didn’t matter that I’ve never had control. I’ve always felt controlled.  I’ve always been the good girl, the obedient girl, the girl that didn’t make a mess. The girl that put everything in its place. The girl that didn’t lose staplers. My mother’s recent death didn’t change that.

I slowly raised my eyes above the divider and observed our office.  The workplace was buzzing with everyone focused on a task. Where was the stapler? Who could have taken it? I had no idea but also knew myself. Until the stapler was back in its place, I would be distracted…uneasy…unable to focus…and the panic would return. Ok, I thought, this is just like CSI…someone stole something. What is the first step? Dust for fingerprints. Yep…that’s not going to happen. Interview the suspects. Ok…less of a stretch.

I looked at Barbara who sat in the next cubicle. She glanced up and smiled, as she stapled a group of papers with her purple and red stapler. Not mine. “Do you need something?” she asked? Yes, I thought. I need a stapler, but I need my stapler. Not that monstrosity of a stapler. “Did you see anyone at my desk?” I queried. Barbara glanced at her phone and started texting. “He told me not to tell you…It’s a surprise.”

I’ve worked at this company for three years and cannot think of one male who would want to surprise me for any positive reason. Is it George from Accounting? He hates me. For good reason. I typically find his errors. George makes a lot of errors.

At that moment, my brother came around the corner. My mind wasn’t really comprehending what I was seeing. Why was my brother at my work? Yet another thing that was not in its place…and he was holding my stapler. My surprised look put Gerald on alert. He lived with my mother also. We were masters at interpreting non-verbal communication.

“You said it was sticking…” he said as he placed the stapler in my drawer. I put my arms around my brother. We exchanged a silent moment of sharing our brokenness, the product of our relationship with our broken mother. We both had our ways of dealing with our pain. His was to fix whatever he encountered that was broken, mine by keeping everything in its place.  I realized then that while we were impacted by our childhood, it didn’t need to define us. Together we would both be OK.