Aiyana checked herself out in her pocket mirror. Her chocolate hair was straight, her lush lips still held the sheen of her lipstick, she could see the prominent features of her heart shaped face, strong nose, and pronounced cheekbones. Many said she looked Asian, but quite to the contrary, she had a Native American heritage. Something she wasn't overly thrilled about. Satisfied with her appearance, she strolled into her boss' office. She had trouble putting on her best poker face because she knew why she was being called into his office.
She had been good at her job. She knew it, but her boss Lambert, didn't. He gave a disinterested look. It was clear to her that she wasn't anything to him, not even a cog in his machine. She was profitable or not.
He said with mechanical professionalism, "You know the newspaper is a dying business. Your magazine 'Lively Hood' isn't selling so we can't afford to keep it running."
"Then assign me somewhere else," she counter argues.
"I'm sorry, there are no open positions." Her frustration threatened to boil over. He was dicking with her. But reputation is everything, she couldn't risk soiling it. He continued, "I promise, as soon as we have an opening, we'll call you. I want you to know how valuable you are to us."
"Thank you sir," she said through clenched teeth. "I thank you for giving me the opportunity to work with you and your company. It has been productive."
"Likewise, the pleasure, as always," he said.
She stepped out to the second office floor, where all eyes were upon on her, burning holes in her jacket. The embarrassment was palpable.
She headed for the elevator, not because she hated her coworkers, but quite the opposite. She loved them and didn't want the pain of saying goodbye. Better to save your tears because parting is such sweet sorrow. Her coworkers would neither forgive nor understand. But it wasn't their choice.
The lobby is thankfully empty, devoid of living haunting memories of what had once been. At a time like this, there is one person to call. Her mother had always been close to her. She always turned to her in times of crisis. Today certainly seemed like one of those times. She dialed the number.
"Hello," her mother said. She felt a strange feeling, the same feeling she always got, like her stomach is weightless and turned upside down.
"Hi mom, I got bad news."
"You know that no news is good news. Sweet baby Jesus, what happened?"
"Got fired from Past 'n' Present Chronicles."
"Oh no, baby girl, that ain't right."
"Told you for a while, they were planning on canning me." The last part she used for her mom's amusement.
"Yeah, I'm so sorry. What will you do?"
There was a pause, she hadn't really thought about it. "I still want to finish my story. It might complicate things. I'll look for another job as an editor with another company."
"You going to be ok?" her mom asked sympathetically.
She gave a nervous chuckle, saying, "I hope." It was a very unsure sounding comment.
"I'm here if you need anything, hun. Just let me know, ok?"
"Love you," she said.
"Love you," her mom replied
She ended the call. During the car ride back, she started thinking how she would have to sell her home. She had called Shanty Hills her home for nearly ten years. Driving through its narrow streets of cobbled stone, pass the old brick structures, and the Victorian era wooden manors, she knew she would miss the town. She returned to her nice one-bedroom home, a stucco building with floral wallpaper and wood trim. She threw off her clothes, letting the naked feeling settle in, free of the confines of formal life. She hopped in the shower, even freer of shackles of civilization, clothing.
She let the hot water run through her hair, over her c-cup breasts, and down her curves, dripping to the floor. She felt alive again. Her hand dangled near her outer labia. She wondered if she should do it. She decided to do it anyway. Her hand brush against her labia and she felt the first electrical jolts run through her. She wasn't thinking about anyone or anything. It was just the barest of impulses, the desire to touch herself. Her fingers found themselves inside her. She pushed them deeper into her. The feeling was overwhelming, something instinctual and spiritual. She didn't care where her hands went. Before she knew it, she was fingering herself in an autonomous motion, he fingers dancing in and out. She was giving into the pleasure. She pulled herself back from the brink of an orgasm and continued to clean herself.
She stepped out of the shower and dried off. She logged on to the computer, almost a decade old, and checked out the job-boards. She didn't see anything for the local cities so she expanded it further and further.
Nowhere was hiring for that position. She felt suffocated by the crushing defeat. She needed work so she started scrolling through the job ads. She gave up with searching after an hour. She decided to distance herself from her troubles and sat down at the desk in her bedroom where her grandfather's antique typewriter sat.
It had become a family heirloom. She typed the few pages that had rattle around in her head with the steady clicks of keys. But once those pages were finished, she couldn't type the next couple of pages. Their inspiration would have to come with time. Sitting there and trying to force it never worked. She decided to do something that she hadn't found the interest or time to do in a very long time, color. For the next couple of weeks, she continued to look until depression set in and work on her story steadily declined.
Eventually, she found an ad for a caretaker for the Hathaway Inn. It was between Shanty Hill and the next town over. Her mouse hovered over the advertisement. With words like scenic overlook, historical piece, she wondered why she had never heard of the place but the pay was right up her alley and they provided room and board. She applied, thinking competition would kill any chance of her getting the job, but she got a reply the next day inviting her for an interview.
The inn was remote, deep within the woods and the only way there was through a winding dirt road. It became very apparent why she never heard of it. The building itself looked more like a three-story manor and was overlooking a sheer drop off, rolling forest down below. The outside was white with alabaster roman style columns and massive arches built into the outside of the beautiful stone masonry walls. The hipped roof was vaguely gothic in design and had angels and gargoyles fighting for roof space.
