Fictionlet
“Actually,” said Brigid, “they’re looking for a writer-editor on the next proposal. Interested in some freelance?”
Greg gave a rapid-fire snort of a laugh. “Me? No, my writing’s totally unsuited for the job I’m afraid.”
“Too fatuous, eh?” she said with a sly grin.
“Exactly so!” he replied, apparently taking no offense at the remark. “Really, can you see me writing corporate blather and buzzword bingo? You know what I’m like. Retrograde Maneuvers was supposed to be a gripping drama when I started it, for crying out loud. I can just imagine the agony of trying to keep a straight face on a proposal.” He affected a mock-heavy tone and read from an imaginary sheet of paper: “‘Amalgatronix International has an outstanding reputation in the industry, for being, well, very large — and generally suing the pants off of anyone who annoys us. Call us today, our legion of lawyers are ready to snap into action!'”
“Hmm, you’ve got a point,” Brigid admitted.
“Now, if they were looking for a freelancer to write and edit silly vignettes, I’d be all over that like kudzu on a Louisiana freeway. But in this day and age, that pretty much leaves me qualified to write television commercials.” He shuddered from head to toe and back again. “The horror! The horror!”
Brigid tsked sympathetically. “Too bad Vaudeville’s dead,” she said, the sly grin returning.
“You laugh,” he said. “I’ve felt that way for years!”
-The Gneech
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