I Had the Weirdest Dream
04 Feb 2020Today’s prompt: “A dream your boss had”
Your boss sits in his Herman Miller Aeron chair, answering his emails. He looks up as you enter his office, a hatchet bisecting your skull, the ring finger of your rotten left hand dropping onto the carpet.
“Here’s that report you wanted,” you say, holding out a three-ring binder to him.
“Uh, thanks,” he says.
He opens the binder and his eyes flit back and forth between you and pages of Times New Roman text on three-hole punched pages. You stand still in the middle of his office.
“Keep up the good work,” he says. You nod and leave his office.
A half hour later, your boss drains the last dregs of his lukewarm coffee and heads for the break room. And there you are, emptying a packet of coffee into a filter for one of the office air pots.
“I was just making a fresh pot of Guatemalan, if you want to wait a couple minutes,” you say. Your right eyeball drops into the coffee grounds.
“I’ll just get some French roast,” he says, holding his mug under another air pot spout and pushing the handle.
Your boss takes his coffee back into his office and shuts his door. He manages to send off a few emails requesting various status reports before deciding he needs some fresh air to clear his head.
Your boss is about to pass the main office printer on his way outside, and there you are, filling the tray with paper. Or trying to. Your boss watches in horror as you attempt to slide the bones of your decaying fingers inside the package flaps of a ream of paper.
“Do … you need help with that?” he says, hardly able to contain his own speech.
“No thanks,” you say. “I got it.” Centipedes crawl out of your nostrils and your one open eye socket, down your arm, and insert themselves in the paper flap.
Your boss jolts awake in a panic. After a few seconds, he deliberately slows his breathing, reminding himself that you are still dead.