‘You dropped a bomb on me, baby’

 As promised, here is a short story I’m workshoping with my writer’s group. It’s still a work in progress, but it’s what I work on when I need a break from the teenagers in my novel!  I will warn you, there are a few f bombs dropped so if that sort of thing offends you, please do not read on. I tried not using them, but this particular character swears.

A lot.

You have been warned.


Danielle Bannister



Swivel (As defined by Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary

Pronunciation: \ˈswi-vəl\

Function: noun

Usage: often attributive

Etymology: Middle English; akin to Old English swīfan to revolve, Old High German swebōn to roll, heave

Date: 14th century

: a device joining two parts so that one or both can pivot freely (as on a bolt or pin)

Chapter One

     Daphne’s to do list.

*      Get a jump start on the Petterman case. Mustn’t get lazy just because you’ve been promoted.

*      Schedule my mani/pedi. (find a place with actual Asians this time)

*      Pick up the dry cleaning

*      Clean up e-mails 


Daphne arrived a smidgen early to work on Saturday morning only to discover that her chair was missing. Cocking her head to the side she looked around at the other poorly kept cubicles to pin point where it must have, inadvertently, been pushed. Curiously, each cubical contained one maroon swivel chair apiece, all of them tucked snugly against their appropriate desk. Daphne clucked her teeth and frowned.

One might argue that she could have easily chosen a co-workers chair, but that was hardly the point. The issue at hand was that none of the other chairs were hers. Her chair was a special-ordered, ergonomic, fully hydraulic, black chair, complete with lower lumbar support. A chair worthy of her highly deserved and newly appointed position as head paralegal.

“Where the devil is my chair?” she asked the sea of padded cubicle walls. The only answer she got came from a photo of two laughing brown-eyed girls pinned to the wall of Brian’s station. Their shinning faces glared back at her.

She rested her hands on her hips, trying to determine where a prankster, like Brian, could have managed to hide her precious chair within the confines of her patience. She started tapping her foot against the checkerboard linoleum tile with the toe of her 5 inch high heels. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Daphne was stupefied, and Daphne was never stupefied.

The ding of the elevator climbing up its shaft, gave her pause. Who, besides Daphne, of course, would possibly come to work on at 4:30 in the morning on a Saturday?

Daphne’s mind calculated the possibilities during the moments of the elevator’s ascent:

  1. It could be the chair thief returning her missing chair, trying to sneak it back in before Monday, to whom she would read the riot act;
  2. Brian, Shelia or Melinda trying to put in extra hours in a feeble attempt steal away her promotion, to whom she would also read the riot act; or
  3. A murder.

Although it was highly unlikely a murderer would think to come into the law firm of Sherman and Blake, Daphne found herself ducking into the rest room, just in case.

Once safely inside, she pressed her ear to the door, carefully listening to the chimes of the elevator as it passed the 3 floors below, only to hear it stop dinging as it reached her floor.

Her heart pounded feverishly against her expensive silk blouse. When she heard the doors of the elevator open, Daphne did something completely ridiculous. Clicking her two week-old manicured feet across the bathroom floor, she locked herself into the handicapped stall and sat on the toilet (without a seat protector,) and pulled her long legs up and held them snuggly in her arms. A girl can never be too cautious, after all.

As she shifted her weight, the automatic flush went off.


Angela’s to do list

*       Fire someone…anyone.

*       Remind douche bag that his spousal support check is late again.  Dick.

*       Get a fucking coffee.  NOW!!!

      Fuck a fucking fuck! Of all days for her fucking secretary to fuck up so royally!, Angela hissed  stepping off the elevator. She knew it wasn’t PC to call them ‘secretary’s these days, but she didn’t give a fuck right now. There were a million other names milling around in her head for Linda at the moment, and not a one of them could be uttered in mixed company. How hard is it to find someone who can actually do what you ask them to do? Apparently, pretty fucking hard.


            Needed Immediately: Competent Secretary to replace Linda, my ignorant, absent-minded, lazy- ass, secretary. Does not need to be able to type or even have previous experience in the field of law, but MUST contain one usable brain. Please text or e-mail your prompt-ass reply to:



As she stormed toward her lush corner office that she’d fought her way up the bullshit legal ladder to be in, she heard a toilet  flush in the ladies room, and she stopped. She flipped open her phone to check the time. 4:43. Who the hell is here this early on a Saturday? Even Angela didn’t come into the office on Saturday, well, except for today because of her dumb-ass secretary. So, who was her guest? Common sense told her it wasn’t the janitors because they came in at night, as all good help should. Many-a-night they pushed their mop buckets around the office, grumbling to themselves in their native tongue, impatiently waiting for Angela to leave so they could stop working so hard. But fuck ‘em. This was her office and she could damn well stay until 11:00 every night if she damn well wanted to. So then, who was her mystery guest?

Quietly, she set her purse down on the closest thing to her–the copier and looked around for a weapon of some kind. Her eyes fell on a goose-neck umbrella one of her paralegals must have left behind. Placing the highly-polished wood handle in her hands, she raised the umbrella over her head like a bat, slipped off the boots she’d pulled on over her pajamas in an effort to get to the office stat, and tip-toed for the bathroom, ready to hit something. After all, a woman can never be too careful.


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