canadian's entry for comp #2

[canadian]

A Business Trip by Donna Gagnon
(1,377 words)

In the back seat of the airport limousine, Graham D. Maynard, President of Royal Investment Management, bent his graying head over an opened briefcase resting on his lap. He carefully studied the checklist he'd prepared at home the previous evening. In addition to confirming several compound interest calculations for a wealthy Connecticut family who were on the verge of signing on as RIM's newest clients, he'd noted one additional item and marked it with a large red asterisk. While he was in New York over the next few days, he planned to take personal delivery of a rather expensive piece of jewelry for his wife, Sandra.

Graham smiled to himself. He imagined Sandra's look of astonishment as she opened her anniversary gift. The diamond and ruby necklace would be perfect for her to wear to the company's Christmas dinner.
   
"Sir?  The Island Airport . . . This is where you wished to be?"
   
Graham roused himself out of his pleasant daydream and snapped his black leather briefcase shut.
   
"Thank you." He quickly signed the piece of paper the driver passed back to him, allowing the trip to be charged to Royal Investment Management. "It's a bit foggy this morning, isn't it?" he commented as he prepared to leave the limousine.
   
"Yes, sir. Have a good trip, sir. The back is open," the man answered. He made no move to help his passenger out of the car or to assist him in removing his suit bag from the trunk. Graham made a mental note to have his secretary source out a new limousine company. He slammed the trunk shut, a bit harder than necessary, and watched the car pull away.  It noisily disappeared into the thickening white morning mist.
   
There was a damp breeze swirling through the air as Graham walked briskly toward the ferry shuttle that would take him across the narrow West Channel to the Toronto Island Airport.  Graham shivered. He should have listened to Sandra. She'd told him several times over the past week that it was time to put the wool liner inside his Burberry coat. He hunched his broad shoulders forward and walked a little faster. Squinting, he could barely make out the entrance to the ferry docks at the end of an asphalt path that curved south between two of the city's tallest skyscrapers. On his left was an expanse of gray brick and cement -- The Hyatt Hotel -- that rose up 42 floors, ending with a circular rotating restaurant from which patrons were treated to an ever changing view of Lake Ontario, the city of Toronto and its myriad suburbs. On his right was a narrow strip parkette, its precisely landscaped green now slightly faded in the early days of winter.  Several denuded trees rustled faintly in the wind that blew up from the lake. Beyond the tiny park was another large building, this one constructed of tinted glass and gleaming steel.  He and Sandra had lived here, on the 15th floor. A few months before their marriage, he'd asked his bride-to-be where she would most like to live. She had paused only briefly before answering.
   
"Down by the lake, near the water. So we're close to the boat. Not too far away from the office."
   
They had gone apartment hunting together and found their first home, a two-bedroom condominium unit facing the lake, in the new, expensive building near the docks.
   
Ten years, he thought as he hurried past.  It's been ten years since the Personnel Department sent her to me for an interview. Her resume informed him that she had just graduated from a well-respected business school. Graham's first impression had been to send the poor girl home to her mother. She looked so young, so frail and useless. He quickly discovered that his first impression had been completely incorrect.
   
"Sandra Peterson," she'd announced, shaking his hand with a confident strength that surprised him.
   
It was her eyes, he decided, that made her look vulnerable.  Large, round, doe eyes, brown and deep. But throughout the interview, she spoke in a soft, reassuring way and smiled gratefully when, after an hour, he offered her the job as his administrative assistant.  He'd never regretted his decision to hire her. She typed faster than he could read and rarely made a mistake.  Within six months, he couldn't imagine how he'd been able to function before Sandra arrived to organize his life. When he began to dream of gently caressing the soft skin on the back of Sandra's neck and caught himself standing behind her in the office one morning, breathing in the faintly perfumed scent of her, Graham realized he'd fallen in love with his assistant. As powerful as this feeling became, it was many weeks before he convinced himself that she would not laugh in his face if he asked her out to dinner. He was concerned about the difference in their ages, for one thing. She was only twenty four and he was almost forty.  But he dreamed about her more frequently and these dreams became more detailed. One morning, Graham gave in to his night visions and made a reservation at La Felicita, an exclusive Italian restaurant. He walked over to her desk, asked Sandra to join him for a meal and held his breath awaiting her response.

She hadn't laughed at him. Merely said, gently and delicately, "You're sure you want to do this?" He nodded. 

For the past five years, he'd deliberately avoided going on overnight business trips. Marrying Sandra had made him shift his priorities. The arrival of the children -- Travis and Meghan --
had made it even more imperative to let someone else take responsibility for many of his time consuming obligations, like out-of-town client meetings. But when his partner, Samuel Lampman, called from New York to tell him that only the physical presence of Mr. Graham Maynard, President of Royal Investment Mangement would clinch the deal, he knew this was one trip he couldn't pass over. At stake was over $1 billion in funds to be invested in Canada for a wealthy Connecticut family.

He had ten more minutes before the plane was due to take off.  Just enough time to call home. "Sandra?  Hello, sweetheart."

"Graham. I thought you'd be on your way to New York by now."

"Ten minutes before lift off. How are the kids?"

"Fine. Travis is going to make cranberry sauce in Kindergarten today.  Meghan wants to go to the park.  We'll bundle up, don't worry.  She's pretending to be a puppy.  I think she's underneath the dining room table right now.  Waiting for scraps!"

Graham laughed. His daughter, at the age of three, had a very finely tuned, active imagination. "Give them lots of hugs and kisses for me, okay? I should be back by dinner tomorrow. I love you, Sandra."

"I'll miss you. I probably won't sleep much without you next to me."

The pilot was signalling. 

"You know, Sandra, even after ten years, just the sound of your voice on the telephone can get me aroused."
   
"Graham!" Although she sounded offended, he knew she was smiling.

"Keep that bed warm, okay?"

"Love you lots.  Be a good boy in the Bad Apple!"

"Bye, honey."

As he boarded the small twin engine airplane that was waiting, engine revving, on the runway, Graham noticed that the fog seemed to have cleared somewhat. The pilot assured him that conditions had improved and that everything looked good for an uneventful flight. Graham settled into his seat and fastened his seatbelt as the plane began to taxi out along the runway. As it began to take off, he stared out the window and reflected, not on the meetings that lay ahead of him in New York over the next few days, but about his return to his wife and children. The warmth of their embraces, the excited voices of Travis and Meghan demanding to know what Daddy had brought back for them and the pleasures of love in bed with Sandra -- these were the final images in Graham D. Maynard's mind. The accident happened so quickly that he wasn't even aware of the crashing impact the plane made when it hit the icy cold water of Lake Ontario.

[Ed]

Thanks for your entry, Donna   I'll have a read tomorrow - bit too knackered right now to appreciate it, so I'm off to bed 

[Walker]

Hi Donna, I knew Blunt would get a good showing for the comp. I'm just going to read your entry, can't wait. Hope you had a great christmas, lotsa snow, eh?   

[canadian]

Hey, Walker! Hope you enjoy the tale. Yeah, we've got more than three feet of snow. How are things your way?

Christmas was typical . . . when you come from a dysfunctional family, the holiday season can be either incredibly frustrating or extremely hilarious (depending on your frame of mind). This year, I chose to see the humour. 

Hope to see more Comp. entries . . . I really enjoyed yours BTW. It's what inspired me to write mine!!

[Walker]

dysfunctional? That was the first word I ever spoke! :p  We've got about the same amount of snow here- about 3' on the flat, 6' and the end of the driveway. Christmas was great, lots of happy kids running around, I even knew a few of them. My favorite part is the food. Lot's and lot's of food 
   Loved your story, Donna. Thanks for posting that one. Thanks, also, for the comment on mine. See ya 'round...

[canadian]

If I don't get a backhoe in here soon, I'm not going to be able to see to get out of my driveway! The guy that plows us out has this mean streak in him, I swear. 

Glad to hear you had a good Christmas, Walker. My kids are older now and Christmas consists of drinking lots of beer together, eating way too much food and learning new things about each other. Kinda cool. 

[Ed]

Thanks for your entry, Donna   I'll have a read tomorrow - bit too knackered right now to appreciate it, so I'm off to bed 

Heh...that was 'tomorrow' in a metaphorical sense, of course...ahem....

Good story, well done   We're gradually getting a few entries in now (thanks to both of you for making the effort) and the standard is pretty high so far - think it's going to be tough to judge

Graham, in the story - poor bugger.   Still, at least it was quick.  It could have been worse; if it was me, I would have survived the impact, sunk with the plane filling with ice-cold water, and me not being able to open the doors to swim out.  Then, just as I'd resigned myself to a terrible death, breathing-in the rancid stench of the only air pocket left (the toilet), the plane would have imploded, with the toilet compartment bursting forth from the fusilage, intact, like a bar of soap from wet hands, into the open water.  I'd shoot to the surface, with one foot in the bowl and the other holding the door shut...only to slam into the underside of a six foot thick sheet of ice on the surface, and sink again
Worse still, I would be perfectly preserved, lying unfound in my 'fibreglass toilet coffin' for two thousand years, until stumbled upon by a surveying crew, dredging the lake-bed for now priceless plastic bottles and other refuse, thrown overboard by litterbugs on passing ships, centuries before.  I would be brought to the surface and marvelled at, then passed, in hermetically sealed containers, around the world and displayed in exhibitions, nicknamed 'Poopy', by archaelogists.  Then they would make up theories about how I had died - yes, we're fairly certain that he was ritually sacrificed and then buried 'at lake', with all his personal possessions.  Probably the son of a tribal leader, given the beautifully made diamond and ruby encrusted headband...and they believed in reincarnation - he has everything he needs to carry on living in the afterlife.  Look, ceremonial food - dry roasted peanuts in a priceless plastic bag, with the words 'In Flight Snack' emblazened on it.  He even had his own throne buried with him, with two different seat designs...marvellous, just marvellous...the craftsmanship....

[canadian]

Well... vive la difference, eh Blunt? I challenge you now to write that story! I give you total permission. "The Continuing Story of One Dead Graham's Hour".

I absolutely love how all of our brains function on completely different levels. I go for the touchy, feely stuff... Blunt heads off into the ether of violence, destruction and science fiction. 

[Ed]

Well... vive la difference, eh Blunt? I challenge you now to write that story! I give you total permission. "The Continuing Story of One Dead Graham's Hour".

I absolutely love how all of our brains function on completely different levels. I go for the touchy, feely stuff... Blunt heads off into the ether of violence, destruction and science fiction. 

Hey, it was you that crashed the plane and killed the guy, not me!

Yeah, it does seem like we're all on completely different wavelengths - horror and humour seems to be my thing, but some of my other stuff might surprise you  

I might just write the tale up, but then...I've kinda given away the ending already, haven't I?

[canadian]

I'm not trying to say that you don't have any depth, Blunt. But you know that, don't you? 

[Ed]

I wouldn't blame you if you did  

Maybe I should broaden my repertoire a tad more though - I've got a few things stashed away that would break the mould, but they need some polishing first.  I was going to enter one of them for the 'Bleeding Planet' thingy - started editing and re-writing bits of it last night.

[canadian]

Write on, Blunt.  I've been trying to stretch myself, too. Kinda got tired of writing gushy stuff. Even discovered I have a bit of a knack for humour. Check out these flash entries I did last month for toowrite:

inspired by the word: DEPTH

#1

Marcie and her daughter were outside in the garden. Today, they were planting beets.

"Planting depth, 1/2 inch," Marcie read off the package.

"Deff," her daughter said. "What's deff?"

"Depth, dear. It's a word to describe how far down in the ground we need to put these seeds.
If you don't plant them at the right depth, they won't grow properly."

"Oh. Did we plant Daddy at the right deff then, Mommy?"

#2

"Okay, class," the drama instructor began. "Today, we are going to explore depth of character with a scene from Macbeth."

The class was paired up. Young Randall and Mrs. Wiley ended up together.

"How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:
I would, while it was smiling in my face,
Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums
And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you
Have done to this" exclaimed Mrs. Wiley, with great passion.

Randall looked at his next line ("If we should fail?"), threw his script down on his chair and abruptly left the room.

Mrs. Wiley was 84 if she was a day. Randall knew he did not have the ability to go that deep . . .

[SallyQ]

That's very sad and sweet Canadian. It shows just how precious those moments are that we share with our loved ones. I'm just glad I didn't read it before getting on a plane for the first time to go to Venice last week!

Good luck in the comp.

Sally

[canadian]

Thanks, Sally. And how was Venice? I have always wanted to go there. Maybe some day ... 

[Neuromancer]

Hmm good read.

A little predictable as it follows the classical "romance story" of a couple of having a fairy tale marriage quickly ended by the death of one of the partners.

However, unlike the gushy stuff, its the male that dies.  So it wont be a best seller.  After all the woman wants to bed the man who was a perfect doting husband, and has suffered some serious loss that only she can pull him out of

Good story though.