by Gabriela Denise Frank
The new girl, Olive, was stealing my food.
She was introduced to our firm as an efficiency expert, but I could tell: Olive was a hatchet woman hired to trim the fat — and bone. She swooped in on a Thursday, shedding oily black pinions on the polished floors. On Friday, the first senior account manager disappeared. No farewell card, no frosted sheet cake. One by one, Olive picked off the old-timers suckling at the teat of repeat clients and retainers. Each Friday, another private office came available, albeit the walls smeared with blood.
“It’s time to name the next generation,” said Stu, our COO, at the monthly staff meeting.Continue reading FICTION: The Harpy — or She Sought to Shatter Her Bovine Complaisance