Sent to the Wrong Printer

You’re at work and you print something personal (and sensitive). Unfortunately, you’ve sent it to the wrong printer and, by the time you realize it, someone else has already scooped it up.

Post your response (500 words or less) in the comments below.

You might also like:

  • No Related Posts

One thought on “Sent to the Wrong Printer

  1. kathleenmagner

    Jake clasped the square box hidden in his slack’s left pocket while smothering a sneeze in the crook of his elbow. He waited in his dress shirt’s sleeve, thinking of Angela, then black pepper, ticklish feathers, and puffs of flour until another expulsion worked its way free. Silks and tweeds rustled against the conference room chairs as the board members turned.

    “Are you feeling all right, Mr. Thompson?”

    Sniffing, Jake uncurled his fingers from the box’s crisp corners and grinned wearily at Mrs. Grayfield.

    “I think so, ma’am.”

    With a weak cough, Jake returned to his open laptop set before him on the room’s slab of a table. A pie chart filled the monitor. Through the projector’s glowing lens the same image of elevated slices indicating donations, grants, endowments, and sponsorships illuminated the far wall. A mouse click transitioned the slide to the various non-profits hoping for a sliver of the Institute’s collected monies.

    Taking a ragged breath, Jake resumed his presentation, shoulders slumped, body listing over his computer. He punctuated the pros and cons of each possible recipient with a sneeze or hack, and made sure to keep his head drooping. When he reached the last slide and elaborated upon the final tidbit of information, he propped himself on his elbows and wandered his gaze around the table.

    “That leaves the decisions up to the nine of you.”

    Four on the board bobbed their heads like buoys on a rough sea. Three others nodded with understanding, including Mrs. Grayfield who adjusted her spectacles on her hawkish nose. Beside her, Mr. Parson’s awoke from his doze. At the head of the table, Director Richards pressed his fingertips together and brought the manicured peak to his lips.

    “The deadline?”

    “We’d need a decision by next Wednesday at the latest.” Jake shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “Honestly though the sooner the better. A lot of these organizations are running in the red or have been for months.”

    “It would be nice to have this wrapped up by the holidays.” Mrs. Grayfield laid her bejeweled fingers on a spiral bound copy of the report Jake had distributed a delayed hour and a half earlier. “All of the details are in here?”

    Ceasing his massaging, Jake attempted to straighten. “Yes ma’am.”

    “But the slide you had showing the future impacts?” Richards waggled his hand, golden cufflink glittering.

    At the insinuation, Jake heaved off his elbows and clicked backwards until the line chart with its multicolored web reappeared on the far wall.

    “Yes, that one.” Richards tilted in his high-back leather chair, the crunch of his suit gathering the room’s attention.

    Jake slumped and double-checked the box. Feeling the hard edges, he glanced furtively at his watch while Richards and the rest began a roundabout conversation he felt certain would never find a destination. The hands on the watch face neared the 90 degrees of three o’clock and Jake drummed his fingers on the hidden container.

    …. Click here to read the rest and feel free to leave a comment.


This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.