A Round Robin exercise based on this morning's spam

[Gnosticangel]

Re. this morning's spam post, now justly removed, Justin Isis's response to it made me laugh:

"This sounds like the title of an actual Ligotti corporate horror story."

"Your professional resume is the most important document in your career," the Chief Counselor told Quivver. A black fluid began leaking from the side of his head, and his teeth rattled in his mouth."

But then I wondered if we could make an exercise of it? Inspired by Justin's example, here's my brief attempt at a beginning to our sad tale:


Your Professional Resume is The Most Important Document in Your Career: A Horror Story

Once again I found myself lost between jobs and identities. Months behind on my rent, and with no skills, employment prospects, or sense of self or community, I was purposeless and directionless. Only from the bleak lethean void of alcohol was I able to derive some slight comfort before sleep, but then each morning I awoke to find that the bare brick walls of my studio apartment had again grown a little tighter around me. The image of my father’s old pistol buried in the desk drawer began to haunt me like an unused ticket to a tropical vacation.

Until one has experienced the state of being unemployed, desperate and alone, most of us stubbornly maintain a faith that life has some meaning, and that things will work out if only one applies oneself. But that day as I wandered the grey streets with the Help Wanted section of a local paper in hand, stumbling from one humiliating interview to another, the busy people rushing past seemed like apparitions laboring under an unobtainable illusion. They were the ones who were asleep while I was the dreamer who had awakened to an unfortunate truth.

The sad truth of this moment was that I had only a few tens of dollars left to my name, and the gaping doorway of a nearby saloon beckoned me with an offer of welcome oblivion, even if only temporary. As I wavered there undecided, I perceived that next to the bar was a dirty storefront window bearing the sign, “Employment Counseling: Free Evaluation.” I could not see past the grime but it appeared that there were at least two vague figures in the space behind, though they were rendered headless and limbless by the dulled glass. Pushing off the attraction of a drink, I thought, “Well, what do I have to lose?” and entered through the door into the office.

.... your contributions invited.

[qcrisp]

Continued...

The moment I stepped inside and was caught in the gaze of the two occupants of that room, I regretted my decision, but somehow I felt unable to turn and retreat. Sitting at the desk was a woman, perhaps in her early thirties, with a blue office jacket and pencil skirt, both of which seemed to contain her like a questionnaire template. Behind her stood a man only a little older, having the air of dubious authority that one generally finds among experts in a field of their own invention.

"Have you got a problem?" asked the woman, looking up from her seated position. I almost laughed, but immediately felt I shouldn't, and hid my smirk. I felt as if I had been challenged by a bouncer and wondered what in my appearance could have prompted this response.

"I'm a jobseeker," I said.

"Unemployed?"

I nodded.

"Sit." She motioned to a chair opposite her own.

Again I nodded, and with a deep intake of breath, I occupied the indicated seat.

"Name?"

"Quivver."

She proceeded to interrogate me. Occasionally, I paused, wanting to resist answering, but finding myself providing the requested information.

"Mr. Quivver," she said at last, "are you aware you're suffering from a disease?"

"A disease?"

"Yes, unemployment is a disease. Fortunately, we have developed therapies for its treatment."

My eyes had been adjusting to the gloom during this interview, and I found my gaze drawn to a large glass jar, on a surface to the side of where we sat, somewhat alchemical in appearance and seeming to contain a miniature blighted landscape, with an almost leafless tree about one and a half feet in height, over whose trunk and limbs there crawled a number of beetle-like creatures. There was a label on the jar, fastened to its outside with sticky tape. I read the words, in black marker, "Animal Spirits." A distillation tube led from this jar to another, apparently empty.

To be continued...

[Ibrahim]

Well, since i am an incompetent prose stylist, please allow me to follow up in the shape of a rudimentary comics script. Layout for the first consecutive page would be a basic grid of three by three panels, the first of which finds a dazed mr. Quivver standing outside the shop again, facing the street, with apparently no clear recollection (perhaps hinted at in the second panel by an uncomprehending glance over his shoulder at the grimy darkened storefront) of how long he spent inside (if he did, at all? ).
He begins to make his way homeward in the dusk. Walking his usual route, mr. Quivver (who is beginning to suspect, from his hazy mental state, that he had been in the saloon after all, rather than in the neighbouring store) notices, framed by two sgraffitoed council flats, a distant field, barren but for a single, near-leafless tree.
He searches his pockets for those last ten dollars, so he can buy -a can of sardines, a loaf of bread? a bottle of...
But they are gone. In their stead, he finds a slender phial of bright green ichor (note to colourist: the kind of green DeQuincey describes as the green of opiate delirium), labeled: Spirit Animals.