October writing prompt #5: Spacing
I've got to say that these prompts get more and more interesting by the day. Yesterday's prompt was "smooth like...", and it didn't ring any bells for me - and unfortunately I didn't have time to write about it. Today's prompt is "spacing" - as in letter spacing, perhaps?
I created a story of a Mr. Jenkins, an aspiring journalist who struggles to satisfy his employer's, Mr. Jefferson's, demands that tend to change on a daily basis. This one's a really short version of what could be a much longer conversation. I imagine the story to be set in the roaring 20's, a decade that I'm super excited about - the fashion, makeup, style, the overall careless freedom and the rise of independent flapper girls who struggled to be free of their male dominators' power. In the longer version, if I am to write that at some point, these unique 1920's surroundings could be described more, whereas now the era is mostly in my head and it does not show that much in this text. And I don't think it needs to show at this point since the idea here is to describe the relationship between Jenkins and Jefferson. As you're going to notice, they really don't get along.
Also this time there is an attempt to write a story in English, yay!
#5: Spacing
"So, what do you say? It's good, isn't it?"
Mr. Jefferson, my employer, took glances at the paper I had handed him a moment earlier.
"No, no, no... it's all wrong."
"What now?"
Jefferson lifted his head from the paper.
"The spacing."
"Wha-- spacing?"
"Yes, Jenkins, spacing. Your letter spacing is completely wrong. You have to leave more space between the letters."
"You can't be serious about that. Are you saying that you're gonna ditch my text because of letter spacing?"
"A clever observation, Jenkins. That's exactly the thing I'm doing."
"I worked my ass off to get that story! Do you even realize to what lengths I had to go? I had to break in to that morgue to see the body for myself, because the coroner just wouldn't let me see it!"
" I wouldn't raise my voice like that if I were you. Someone could hear."
I couldn't believe I was having this conversation. There he just sat behind his desk with a stupid grin on his face, like my anger brought him great fun. This was supposed to be my breakthrough, and Jefferson destroyed it, just like that, like it was nothing.
"I told you I wanted a perfect article. A perfect article, in possible meanings that 'perfect' might have. Your spacing sucks big time, Jenkins, and that can only mean one thing: your article is imperfect. And I'm not taking imperfect for an option."
I could only watch as Jefferson took my imperfect article to the level of his eyes, ripped it apart to small pieces and let the fragments of my breakthrough fall to the floor.
"Perfection, Jenkins", Jefferson said, stressing every word of that accursed word. "Go work on it. And take some time to master your typewriter, if you want to get anywhere. And don't come back until you have something that fits my definition of perfect."
"I had something", I hissed. "I had a perfectly good story. And you've made it like it never existed."
"Was that the wind I heard?"
I so much wanted to strike him. Perhaps in other circumstances I would have, but at the office there were too many witnesses. The big punch in his arrogant face had to wait.
"Fine. I'll go work on something. And it's going to be the most perfect story that ever existed on this planet. But it's not gonna be for you, you fuckface. I'll take it to someone who actually has the intelligence to appreciate it."
"I believe you can see yourself out?"
Patience, Jenkins, I said to myself. I improved my posture, straightened my navy blue tie and turnt around.
"Yes, I can. See you around, fuckface."
I created a story of a Mr. Jenkins, an aspiring journalist who struggles to satisfy his employer's, Mr. Jefferson's, demands that tend to change on a daily basis. This one's a really short version of what could be a much longer conversation. I imagine the story to be set in the roaring 20's, a decade that I'm super excited about - the fashion, makeup, style, the overall careless freedom and the rise of independent flapper girls who struggled to be free of their male dominators' power. In the longer version, if I am to write that at some point, these unique 1920's surroundings could be described more, whereas now the era is mostly in my head and it does not show that much in this text. And I don't think it needs to show at this point since the idea here is to describe the relationship between Jenkins and Jefferson. As you're going to notice, they really don't get along.
Also this time there is an attempt to write a story in English, yay!
#5: Spacing
"So, what do you say? It's good, isn't it?"
Mr. Jefferson, my employer, took glances at the paper I had handed him a moment earlier.
"No, no, no... it's all wrong."
"What now?"
Jefferson lifted his head from the paper.
"The spacing."
"Wha-- spacing?"
"Yes, Jenkins, spacing. Your letter spacing is completely wrong. You have to leave more space between the letters."
"You can't be serious about that. Are you saying that you're gonna ditch my text because of letter spacing?"
"A clever observation, Jenkins. That's exactly the thing I'm doing."
"I worked my ass off to get that story! Do you even realize to what lengths I had to go? I had to break in to that morgue to see the body for myself, because the coroner just wouldn't let me see it!"
" I wouldn't raise my voice like that if I were you. Someone could hear."
I couldn't believe I was having this conversation. There he just sat behind his desk with a stupid grin on his face, like my anger brought him great fun. This was supposed to be my breakthrough, and Jefferson destroyed it, just like that, like it was nothing.
"I told you I wanted a perfect article. A perfect article, in possible meanings that 'perfect' might have. Your spacing sucks big time, Jenkins, and that can only mean one thing: your article is imperfect. And I'm not taking imperfect for an option."
I could only watch as Jefferson took my imperfect article to the level of his eyes, ripped it apart to small pieces and let the fragments of my breakthrough fall to the floor.
"Perfection, Jenkins", Jefferson said, stressing every word of that accursed word. "Go work on it. And take some time to master your typewriter, if you want to get anywhere. And don't come back until you have something that fits my definition of perfect."
"I had something", I hissed. "I had a perfectly good story. And you've made it like it never existed."
"Was that the wind I heard?"
I so much wanted to strike him. Perhaps in other circumstances I would have, but at the office there were too many witnesses. The big punch in his arrogant face had to wait.
"Fine. I'll go work on something. And it's going to be the most perfect story that ever existed on this planet. But it's not gonna be for you, you fuckface. I'll take it to someone who actually has the intelligence to appreciate it."
"I believe you can see yourself out?"
Patience, Jenkins, I said to myself. I improved my posture, straightened my navy blue tie and turnt around.
"Yes, I can. See you around, fuckface."
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