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About This Author
 Kiya is a young woman with many interests. She's got a degree in Computer Science and Registered Nursing.
She's an avid reader and considers Stephen King one of her favorite authors.
She's also been known to pen one or two stories here and there, and as a proud moderator of Writing.Com, she invites you to check out her portfolio (and even better, to sign up today!).
Published Works:
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The Son of Man
The delicious aroma from the kitchen was ruined by cigarette smoke.
His fault actually.
He knew she’d come barging into their living room, with a scowl on her face, slam the plate of beef sausages and mashed potatoes in front of him, and then lock herself away in the bedroom.
He sighed and sucked in more of the poison; the familiar rush of nicotine infiltering decaying lungs. He, honestly, was doing his best to quit the habit.
On T.V. the Dodgers were leading by five runs. It was a foregone conclusion that the Tigers would lose this one, but one had to give them credit for not going down without a fight. Seventh inning stretch, with two on and two out? Miracles could happen, you know.
“That’s the last of it,” she announced as the plate was all but tossed before him. It was followed by the scrapping of the second chair at the small table.
He blinked in surprise. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d joined him for dinner. With haste, he crushed out the cigarette and plastered a grateful smile on his lips.
“The last of what, honey?”
“Sausages, milk, butter, sugar…”
She rattled off the rest of the grocery list, leaving him to stare at the still sizzling lumps of beef on his plate in helpless misery. It all boiled down to money at the end of the day, didn’t it?
“When are you going to ask for that raise, David?”
He gave a start and looked up. Her gaze was hard. Unrepentant. Her patience was wearing thin.
“I’m having a meeting with him tomorrow,” he offered meekly. “Don’t you worry, hon. I’ll definitely let him know the score.”
She scoffed; her disappointment crumbling into increasing resentment.
The rest of supper tasted like sand.
_____________
Monday morning was drenched with polluted rain. He adjusted the sleeve of his oversized black coat, wondering what it would feel like to wear something that didn’t feel so threadbare. The matching black bowler hat was a size too big; something borrowed from a friend just so he could fit in with the others at work.
He narrowly missed the bus, and would only just join the lengthy line of identical monotonous black-clad workers heading into the towering slab of concrete they would call home for the next twelve hours.
The elevator ride was akin to being trapped with sardines that smelled of aftershave and mediocrity. His cubicle was chilly in a room that felt drab and drained of life.
In no time, the familiar click-clack of over fifty typewriters filled the void; bowed heads all in unison, staring at pages and pages of blank white paper that would soon be filled with words and numbers signifying nothing.
In the aisles were better dressed men in grey suits with gel-infused hairstyles. Every now and then, one would point in disapproval and a few curt words would be exchanged.
His vision blurred. He had forgotten his glasses at home.
By midday, they were allowed a smoke-break.
Reprieve came in the packed cafeteria, where like-minded individuals; many who also promised their wives they would quit, sucked in the poison in blissful gratitude.
“Heard Mitchell’s getting the axe soon,” someone droned.
“No shit,” another commented. “Had it coming though. Didn’t produce enough last month, did he?”
David paused in the sombre silence that followed, before blurting out, “I’m gonna ask for it today.”
This announcement was met with even heavier silence; soon shattered by the sound of one crushing a cigarette beneath his feet. Someone else sighed and another coughed. Finally, one spoke,
“Break’s over.”
Mumbled agreements followed and they all left, leaving him standing there in his oversized suit and a slow slump of his shoulders. They didn’t believe him, and why should they? He must have vowed this many times already. Besides, when last had any of them gotten a raise? The very idea was preposterous.
“Ah, Montgomery, been lookin’ for you. The Big Boss wants to see you in his office. Chop, chop, eh?”
David nearly choked at the sudden instructions from the gel-haired manager. Even his once unimpressed co-workers had to look back to make sure they hadn’t heard things. It was rare to get such a summons, and as he straightened out his tie and trotted after his superior, he could feel their envious gazes following his every step.
It was only a simple door with frosted glass, yet the nameplate upon it was enough to fill him with hope and silent dread.
J.P. Quartermain M.D.
A single knock and he was ushered into a utilitarian room; most unlike what he had imagined a departmental head’s haven would be. It would appear that J.P. Quartermain was not one for frivolity. This office felt even colder than his cubicle, with Spartan bland furnishings broken by the only bit of colour in the room; a large green apple sitting on his desk.
“Have a seat, Montgomery,” came the invitation in a rather boisterous voice to match the heavyset man with greasy silver hair. Quartermain’s features were ruddy with greed; his jowls bouncing with every saccharine platitude he could manage.
How’s the wife? Awful weather we’re having, eh? Watch the game last night?
David might have shaken his hand - wet and soft – but he was still too dazed to really notice. He sat gingerly; his entire being a study in tension.
“Now, let’s get down to it, Montgomery. You’ve been with us for fifteen-years now, right? And you’ve been an exemplary worker. However, times are getting hard and we have to cut costs you know, so it pains me to have to tell you that we will no longer be requiring your services…”
The green apple had a fly upon it now. David was sure it would burrow a hole into it soon enough.
He sighed. He could already smell the rich aroma of beef sausages and cigarette smoke.
Perhaps this time, the Tigers might actually have a win against the Dodgers.
Word Count: 1000 words
Art: The Son of Man 
Prompts ▼
What's His Story: #33. The delicious aroma from the kitchen was ruined by cigarette smoke for "The North Remembers"
2. 11. Take your favorite painting and write a poem or a story inspired from the painting. 500<->1000 words for the story, and 20 lines max. 150 words for the poem for "Westeros"
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