Inquiry in the Office

If you read this, I will surely love you forever. I know it's a bit long, but I am wondering what it really is like, based on other opinions. It's not that great and it's very Dickens-like, in that it's sort of slow-paced in some areas, and the smallest o

 

In a matter of inquiry, it was raining on either side of the road, while the other remained dry, dry as bone other than the small section of freshly laid mulch to the left. As the drops came to a slow, unsteady pace, puttering onto the large, wooden deck outside of a slightly unclean window, the rather thin girl tapped twice on the typewriter at the last word of her sentence, sending bits of dust into the air(strangely enough, for it was often frequented by none other than her.)

 

Though a relatively up-to-date computer monitor sat on the beaten desk as well, it sufficed nicely for a place to put sticky notes and reminders, rather than to provide a source of technology or connection. It had gathered a moderate amount of dust, along with the rest of the items on the desk; never moving, a constant variable in the girl’s life. In fact, as she rummaged through the dim room for something roughly human to wear, a number of garments lay now draped across the irreversibly impracticable computer monitor. Still though, she would rather have it there than not. Constants were very important to her.

 

Once dressed and somewhat ready, the willowy figure slouched across the room, almost dancing with the hurry in her footing. She swiftly wrenched the paper from the typewriter, hurriedly getting hold of a pen. She carved neatly across the top of the ancient paper, Mendora Bledier. She snickered at her inability to agree with the modern world.

 

Taking a roughly worn bag off of a nail from the hand painted, yellow wall, she tore open the window, shoving herself through the small, square hole while chipping the blood-red polish from her nails.

 

Her shoes slapped against the mossy deck, giving way to the moisture when she caught herself, the rain nearly ending. The sun shone against the vintage pearl-hued dress that was her grandmothers so long ago. It was 1940s; she took note when she’d thrown it on for the first time that day. Getting dressed in near darkness was always a favorite of hers, as it was a guarantee for surprise or irony that should appear later on in the day.

 

Though it was only late noon, Miss Bledier hurried to her destination, laughing when she found that she still had a pair of ripped jeans on over the dress, likely from her prior day of hurry. She laughed even more when the knee split on the corner of Jenkins Street, the home of her place of interest, which just so happened to be a somewhat professional area. Nonetheless, she jumped the stairs by twos and stopped just outside of the door to catch her breath.

 

Mendora Bledier stepped into the publishing studio; the red of her lips a lasting remnant of the former day, which was spent at a coffee shop somewhere near Regents Park in Piccadilly, London. Shaking off the memory, she stepped toward the main desk, where a woman named Sal Winston sat, as the golden label read atop her desk read.

 

“Miss Winston,” she began in a smallish voice. “I was wondering if I could discuss… if I could have a word with Mr. Blackwell.” The woman at the desk put a single, grubby finger into the air, not looking up from the papers at her desk. After a few seconds, she pushed a button on the telephone receiver, and waited for another second or so to pick it up. In a voice most congested, she spoke noisily into the telephone. “Yes, yes, sir. Mr. Blackwell a Miss… someone would like to speak with you. Yes, just a moment.” Sal Winston held out the phone for Mendora, making no attempt at changing her expression. Taking the phone, Mendora covered the receiver with one hand. “Excuse me, but I was seeking to speak in private audience with him.” She made sure to widen her eyes so that she didn’t seem rude, as if to expect utmost honor. Miss Winston narrowed her eyes, taking the telephone whilst she pushed another button. “Please hold,” she said into the phone. Being keen to keep the same facial manner, she went on. “Never mind, sir.” And she placed the phone back into its place very slowly. “Mr. Blackwell cannot see you at the moment. You’ll have to schedule something in advance.” She smiled an evil smile and then turned back to her computer.

 

Mendora turned away from the desk, the very flaxen of her beautiful not-yet-brushed hair waving behind her still. Her face fell for only a moment. Without any upheaval, she said without turning, “Tell him it’s Bledier.” There was a silence, the typing from behind her seizing. “That won’t be,” Sal Winston began. But Mendora’s excruciating kindness and empathy had gone for just that moment. “Just tell him it’s a Miss Mendora Bledier, please.” Her thin body turned once more toward the desk, both hands together in a more than polite manner, now that the moment had passed.

 

It was seconds before the telephone smacked against its hard plastic home, and the woman stated plainly, “He’ll see you.” With that, she turned away, squinting again, as Mendora stepped slowly down the corridor to which she knew was Mr. Blackwell’s office, though she hadn’t been there but once before, when the entire strange story began.

 

“Blackwell,” she whispered, poking her head through the crack of the door. “Sir?? Mr. Blackwell…” Just as she finished, a medium-height man with white hair, tan trousers, and dark blue suspenders pulled himself from a closet. “Mendora!!” he spoke quietly, whispering yet shouting at the same time. His arms outstretched in the way of a relative. This man, Mr. Blackwell, or Max, as he requested of Mendora, had a slightly protruding belly and the manners of a king, when he wanted. On the contrary, Mr. Blackwell rarely felt it necessary. On this particular day, a Wednesday, he gave a large stretch before going on. “Have you got the paper?” he said, half-yawning. Mendora nodded once, at perfect ease within his office, yet somehow coming off edgy. “Well, let’s see what we have, then!” the man’s zealous smile was beaming, creasing his forehead even more.

 

A moment passed, perhaps 1 minute, when Mr. Blackwell looked up from the paper. Mendora stood politely at the desk. He nodded once and surely went on reading what one would suppose was a hope-to-be-published article. Once finished, he smiled and took off the large, tortoise-printed spectacles with a smile. Still in the same spot, Mendora cleared her throat, waiting for approval. Max Blackwell placed both hands together in a flat formation in the front of his face, the smile still apparent. Staring up at Mendora from his desk, he stood once more, this time walking back to the closet that he had came from not long ago.

 

When he came out again, he had something large and black in his hand, some sort of sack or casing. He walked to Mendora, who stool still, picking at the edge of her vintage and worn dress. “There shall be death.” Mr. Blackwell did not smile, and the edge in each crease of his face became apparent. “Yes, there shall,” Mendora agreed, the same tone to her voice as was in his, no airiness distinguished. All was silent but for the ebb of a ceiling fan. The two exchanged one last smile, and Mr. Blackwell went to the far left wall, pushing hard on a bookshelf, as if to try and move it. That he did. Mendora took one final look at the office, and peered down at the desk, inquiring something at the center. “Mr. Blackwell,” she said. “What is this??” she strode to a piece of paper on which was written a name and a number of digits. She smiled up at the old man. “Are you cheating on me??” they both chuckled before stepping toward the strange, mahogany bookshelf once more, moving it another time, so that a large opening appeared behind it. Mendora stepped toward it, turning once more to take the black satchel from Mr. Blackwell, peeling it back so that a number of shiny weapons gleamed in the light. Rewrapping the weapons, she looked to the floor before speaking. “Goodbye Grandfather,” she said, stepping into the massive tunnel.

Author's Note

totally for myself, to stretch the genres or ideas of which i can/cannot write

Reviews

[J.P.O.et]

Interesting, must be carefull when conjuring up the likes of Dickens. Which Dickens btw, ah, nevermind?
Seems we are thrust into this story with no real beginning or end. Doesn't allow for much developmentof
characters and relationship between Mendora and Mr.Blackwell. Obviously that is some of the intrigue, this
seemingly secret understanding tween the two. I like how the computer serves as nothing more than a 'place to
put sticky notes and reminders', and the 'constant variable'. As a matter of fact I love that, 'constant variable', the
two opposites making one whole. Mendora seems to exit in such strange ways through the window and finally
through the tunnel behind the bookshelf. The ending does allow for one's imagination to run wild but also left me
wanting somehow. is there any signifigance to the name Mendora Bledier?
Ah anyhow you be good, eh

J.P.O.et

[Kat]

This sucks




....you told me to say that.

[Broken.]

Omg this is so cool!! Idk what it is but its amazing!! I wanna know where that tunnel goes behind the mysterious bookshelf >_> or the weapons used to kill I wonder, maybe I shall dream up an ending in my mere consciousness before I sleep. Until the rest is unravelled...