A Short Story by a Special Guest

I have come to realise that one of the added bonuses of having my own blog is that I can use it to introduce my readers (yes, all two of you!) to other fantastic writers. I had a very interesting conversation with a friend today about her work that she might, someday soon, let me read. And who knows, if I like it, maybe that would be enough for her to publish it and then I can tell you about it! More diverse writing for you, more readers for her! Win win! 

Today I have the pleasure of introducing you to an amazingly talented writer who I genuinely happen to think is one of the most talented people I know. And believe me, I know a lot of talented people. 

So I now hand over my blog, momentarily, to Sheila Mitchell.

The Lift

  “It’s 8:52.  It’s the usual endurance test as I wait for the lift to trundle its way down to the ground floor.  45 pain in the arse floors to rattle down, to get to me, and which one do I work on?  The sodding 44th!”

  “The worst thing about the wait is when you see it stop on a floor and hold for a few miserable seconds...or longer!  When that happens it’s like the entire universe is just taking the piss.  Finally it gets down to “G” and dings, sarcastically.”

  “I enter the lift and press 44 whilst crossing my fingers that I’ll be lucky, but I never am.  The lift meanders slowly through the numbers, all the while a muzak version of “Bohemian Rhapsody” is piped through irritatingly.  The lift might as well be humming the tune to annoy me.”

  “DING!”

  “Bollocks!  Stopping on 8.  What now?  The doors open...and nothing happens.  Bloody typical! Some arsehole presses the button and then fucks off on another lift.  The doors start to close again.  A figure darts into the lift, diving through the air, I barely have time to get out of the way.  The uniform suggests some kind of soldier, but I barely have time to register that as the three tentacles shoot in, grabbing the soldier by the throat, waist and right leg, yanking him out of the elevator.  Just as he is about to be pulled into oblivion he manages to lodge his left knee and right hand against the door. The tentacles tighten around him and his face, red through exertion goes even redder as whatever owns the tentacles tries to squeeze the life out of him.  He’s going purple now and trying to reach his gun holster on his right hip with his left hand.  Ha!  Good luck!”

  “NNNGGGGHHH!”

  “With an almighty show of strength he twists and whips the gun out and lets off a salvo of shots at whatever’s playing a live action version of Stretch Armstrong.  A defiant roar explodes in the elevator, along with several gallons of green gunk, a big splodge of which lands on my lapel.  I can’t believe it.  Some people have no consideration.  The doors close...finally.  The soldier rubs his neck that now has a huge red welt around it.  At last we’re moving again, until the bastard leans forward and presses 12.  FUCKING HELL!   The doors open and he runs out screaming, blasting his weapon at God only knows what?  Idiot!  He’ll run out of ammo soon.  We keep on moving up, but now the muzak version of “The Ace of Spades” being murdered by a plastic orchestra when we stop at 17.  Jesus Christ!”

  “The doors open again and again nothing.  I’m getting sick of this.  Suddenly a chain saw bursts into life somewhere on the floor.  A scream cuts through the air, getting closer, eventually a woman in her twenties with blood on her shirt stumbles in fear into the elevator.  The chainsaw is getting closer now.”

  “HOLD THE ELEVATOR!” some guy shouts, murder in his voice.  “HOLD IT!”

  “Fuck off!” I reply.  “I’m not holding it for two people!”

  “I press the doors close button and hear some dick head cursing me as the lift gets moving  again.  She’s stood there shaking and then she leans forward and presses 21.  What is it with everyone today?  She gets out of the lift and starts running, a chainsaw starts again somewhere in the background as do the screams.  Doors shut, we move on.  As the muzak changes and I wonder why the writers of “Highway to Hell” ever allowed this terrible version to be made.  The elevator stops on 24.  Fucking hell!”

  “The doors open and this time there is someone waiting for the lift.  He’s crawling on the floor, a wound in his belly leaking blood all over the place as he drags himself inside.  A woman follows behind with a mop and bucket and a yellow 'slippery-surfaces' warning sign.  The doors close and the guy at the back of the elevator, leaking all over the lift floor, uses all his strength to raise a hand and point.”

  “P...P...P...Please press 27,” he says. 

  “The cleaning woman does this as he lies back against the wall, groaning and struggling for breath. I can’t believe this.  It’s just not my day.  Eventually we get to 27 and he crawls out leaving more red goo all over the place.  The doors close and the cleaning woman starts mopping furiously.  Within seconds the red mess left by that bleeding idiot is all gone.  She then presses 36.  GODAMMIT!”

  “Excuse me,” she begins in a Spanish accent.  “Excuse me ...is wet here and no can walk, okay.”

  “She has a saggy face that looks like she’s been cleaning for a thousand years.  With that kind of timescale on her features she couldn’t have cleaned the lift and got off at another time?  We stop at 36 and she dawdles out, using her mop to push her wheeled, yellow bucket forward and thankfully out.  Hopefully that will be all I have to go thr...39!”

  “The doors open and a naked couple walk in.  Behind them the sounds of laughing and giggling float through the air.  They remain oblivious as they stare at each other in wonderment.  I hate this place.  You’d think an organization like ours could afford to buy its own building.  I chance a quick glance back.  Bastards!  She’s standing there looking so pert at him!  Well, he’s just showing off.  They leave at 42 to yet more giggling and moaning.  UGH!  Why they didn’t use the stairs I don’t know.  Finally we reach 44.  I leave the elevator at speed, ignore the toilets, even though I need it, and head straight to my desk.  I log in and check the time.  9.04am.  Fucking hell!”

  “Get stuck in the lift, Sheila?” asks Gloria, who sits across from me.

  “12 minutes to get from the ground floor to my desk,” I reply.

  “Who was it today?” she continues.

  “Army guy, screamer, bleeder, naked couple.  But you know what pisses me off the most?”

  “What’s that, love?”

  “THAT’S MEANT TO BE THE FUCKING EXPRESS ELEVATOR!”

  “Yeah, it’s always the same people, isn’t it?” asks Gloria.  “Have you seen the transforming photocopying robot yet?”

  “No, I haven’t.”  

  “He gets in on 20,” she continues, “Optimus Print I think his name is.  Don’t know what he’s doing there.”

  “Who needs the grief?” I reply and get out to work, selling insurance.

I can't help but wonder (wow, did I really just turn into Carrie Bradshaw?) if this was written for me, seen as I work for an Insurance company and quite frequently have to take the sluggish ride up to the 7th floor in the company lift? I wouldn't presume to think I'm that much of an influence on Sheila but it did make me chuckle at the thought.