for the late nights....

Chloe's story is finished! I am turning it in tomorrow at 12:25 to be torn apart, yay!





The overcast sky threatened rain, so Chloe grabbed her green plaid umbrella that hung on a coat rack next to her door. She’d never been fond of the cold rain common in downtown Loren. Wet socks make for cold feet, which in Chloe’s opinion, was one of the worst feelings in the world.
Shrugging, smiling down at her rainboot-clad feet, she stepped outside. Popping up her collar against the beating wind and rain, she shook open her umbrella in one swift swoop. Splashing through puddles, she set a brisk pace towards work.


The click-tap-tick of fingers on keyboards began to lull Chloe into daydreams as she sat studying droplets sliding down the glass pane windows of her office six stories up. In front of her lay the hundredth “next great American novel” of the week. Her eyes drooped. A world of grand adventures, great escapes and forbidden romances of her own began to take shape.
An alarming thump caused Chloe to jump and her eyes shot right back open as soon as they had closed. At once, she spied the large manila folder that had caused the ruckus. Stifling a groan, Chloe’s gaze moved up to Mr. Murrwood’s beady red glare.
The chair squeaked under her as she leaned away from his invading face that was much too close for comfort. “Get to work. Time is money, Burnam!” The familiar odor of coffee and cigarette breath made Chloe’s eyes water.
“Yes, sir.” It was barely audible. There was a lot more Chloe would’ve said, if she could. But, she merely averted her eyes to the large stack of manuscripts that would fill her afternoon. She only looked up when she heard Mr. Murrwood strutting away, clearly in charge. To her left, Stacy—the only person who made working at Loren Publishing bearable—offered an encouraging smile. Chloe returned a meek chuckle, shrugged and rolled her eyes, pulling the yellow folder toward her


A sigh escaped Chloe’s lips as her wide emerald-green eyes stared into the seawater blueness of her tropical fish tank. She was back at her apartment for dinner. Chin resting heavily on her folded arms, slowly rotating back and forth on the swivel chair underneath her, Chloe considered how remarkably similar her life was to the life of that bright yellow tropical angel fish, now making its 57th lap of the hour (Chloe had counted).
She blinked, on the verge of slumber, attempting to push aside the stress of her lengthy “to do” list, avoiding the inevitable. These lists, organized in a tidy blue notebook grasped under Chloe’s folded arms, never left her sight, for they contained her logically sequenced life clearly—numbered and in nice, neat cursive.
Peeling her eyes from the hypnotizing circular path of her fish, she glanced at the clock to her left, over her orderly bed and full book shelves. “5:23 already?” she muttered. Rolling her eyes, she twisted out of her swivel desk chair, allowing it to spin slowly to a stop on its own, swinging her backpack over her right shoulder. As she did, she noticed numbness in her left arm. “Great!” She thought, as her heart pumped rushing blood back into her arm, tingles and pins and all.

The sky looked brighter. The clouds even parted enough to allow some blue to shine through. The sun was trying; she had to give it credit for that. Despite its efforts, Chloe shivered. Pulling her jacket tighter, she headed up Kerby Avenue.
Chloe could’ve walked to the Loren Community College blindfolded. After all, it was the same walk she’d been taking for the last year and a half. That day, the thought of Accounting and Business statistics, however, made the familiar walk very difficult. She lumbered in the almost-warm late afternoon sunlight, delaying the long evening of lectures and numbers as much as possible. She was still clinging to her blue notebook.
Walking into the familiar room with off-white brick walls and brown desks, Chloe slumped into a desk on the third row. Her backpack dropped to the floor. She smiled to a girl sitting next to her and they exchanged the usual “hi’s” and “how are you’s.”
“Okay, class, let’s get started.” Mr. Hugh’s nasal voice pierced through the drone of chatter. His skinny, tall frame was awkward, just like his lectures and soon, Chloe’s mind began to wander. She was finding it harder and harder to keep her reliable numbers from melting together, losing their clarity. In a way, that made Chloe angry.
The fog of her daydream dissipated just as Mr. Hugh was giving out his four page homework assignment, odd numbers only, due Tuesday. He grinned; his students groaned; Chloe frowned. Numbers were becoming her enemy.
Pulling out her blue notebook, she opened to today’s date and made a quick checkmark in the penciled box next to “Accounting.” Fluid strokes of her pen wrote pages 265-269, odd numbers only in the blank spaces underneath the column of uniform checkmarks. Her face contorted and she let out a heavy sigh. After a few goodbyes, she put her life back in her bag and headed out the door. There were still a few blank boxes, waiting to be checked.


“Daydreaming again, huh? Chloe, Mr. Murrwood would not be pleased.” Chloe’s jousting adventure in a far away land was interrupted by Stacy’s warning. It was a nice day for daydreaming, she thought, looking at the blue sky and bright sunlight through her office window six stories up. Chloe twisted to see Stacy in the grey neighboring cubicle to her left and giggled.
“You’re right, Stacy. I need to keep my head out of the clouds. Who knows when Mr. Woodblock will come storming around the corner, breathing fire and orders?” Stacy couldn’t help but giggle, too.
Just then, as if summoned, Mr. Murrwood (Mr. Woodblock to his acquaintances) swung open his office door, making sure his existence was known.
“Right on time,” muttered Stacy, glancing at the clock. She spun back to her computer keyboard and resumed her click-tap-tick typing. Chloe pretended to read the third manuscript of the day, but was acutely aware of Mr. Murrwood’s invasive presence. She started at page 63 for a whole minute, not soaking in one word.
Every week day at 1:30 PM, Mr. Murrwood would sweep his critical eye over the dull office and nod with satisfaction, believing he was fooling everyone into thinking he knew everything there is to know about the publishing business.
He sauntered around the office, hands clasped behind his back. Stopping at Chloe’s desk, his dirty fingers thumbed through the manila folder he had handed her yesterday. Furrowing her eyebrows, Chloe’s blood began to heat.
“And what have you been doing, my dear?”
Chloe shuddered at the thought of Woodblock calling her “dear.” Not only did he call her “dear” but he actually had the nerve to call her his dear. She pressed her lips and turned to page 64 without knowing anything that had happened on page 63, or on any previous page for that matter.
“Haven’t gotten very far, have you. My dear.”
Blood boiling now, Chloe looked up with her eyes flashing. She’d had enough. Mr. Murrwood seemed startled by the sparks. So startled in fact, that he took a step back. His ridiculous know-it-all grin faltered.
Chloe stood, placing the manuscript opened to page 64 on the desk. She picked up her bag, swinging it over her shoulder. Her face flushed red from the fast blood her heart was pumping.
As she walked around her desk, she saw Stacy out of the corner of her eye giggling at her boss’s bewildered face.
“Hey..wa…wait….you can’t…”
Chloe smiled and kept walking.



Sooo? any suggestions?

Reporting from Grammy's Kitchen....GOODNIGHT!