Since University my only creative writing has been committed to screen between taking client calls at Invesco. Now that my time there has passed, I thought it worthwhile, for posterity, to share a select piece of my 'business writing' that had been sent out around the office for the edutainment of my colleagues. 


I don't feel the need to annotate this, or explain away any of the jargon, it would seem most have already had a brush with the call centre, its an east coast thing...



Based on Actual Events


1st Call of the Day


 I just received one of those auto dialer calls that says, “press star to accept the incoming call” then proceeds in a robot voice to spew out a bunch of numbers. I was afterwards connected to a distant voice on a crackling distorted line. 


 The voice was distinctly Arabic and was likely speaking Farsi. On the other end someone was prattling on in a spew of guttural plosives and fricative consonants, seemingly ignorant of my opening. The only English words that I was able to perceive, however indistinctly, were formed into the following sentence, “the American… two million… he dies…”


 At that point I became increasingly anxious but still attempted, albeit somewhat half-heartedly, to build rapport: “So how is the weather in Iran?” Perhaps it was the obvious nervousness in my voice, or the imperious nature of my caller, but I received no response to my friendly overture. Then with curiosity quickly replacing my anxiety, I became emboldened and asked a clarifying security question: “Are you the rep on file?” Again I was met with no response, only the crackly popping from the line and what sounded like feverish breathing on the distant receiver. 


 “Sir?” I continued, “Are you looking to set up a wire transfer? Because if that is the case we have a wire transfer queue I can put you in contact with.” The distant breathing halted, filled in by a sudden eruption of static on the line, then a thin sinewy voice impinged on my right ear drum. “Do that… or he dies,” was distinctly enunciated in a forced English accent. My heart jumped at that moment, not so much at the malicious statement as at the tone and intensity with which it had been uttered. “Okay,” I stammered, “And if you get the voicemail would you like to leave a message.” There was no reply, so I continued, “was there anything else I could help you with today?” There was the sound of a throat being cleared and I waited in anticipation, but again the line was filled only with the hallow popping of static. “Thank you for calling Invesco Trimark,” I managed as I punched in the proper extension number and cold transferred the call with a shudder. 


 Now, a full 45 minutes later, I still sit in after-call filled with anxiety and worry. My hands are trembling as I raise my coffee cup to my mouth, taking little notice of the burning sensation on my tongue as I clumsily fill my mouth. My head is swirling with the potential repercussions that this call might have. I can’t even remember if I properly addressed the terrorists once, let alone said his name three times… Should I have value added, no, it was a directory assistance call. Should I have at least gotten the account number? Was I wrong to have cold transferred? I really hope my call audits don’t suffer.


 Man I think its just going to be one of those days… I need a break.



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Thought Stream

Ah, the formidable blank page, as I snap my letters down its spotless white face offers only contrast. Word after word I commit, composing sentences in mentalese then deftly translating them into English. Here’s a sentence for you, a couple more and we’ll have a thought stream. This stream is not committed to time, no passage of days will dull the original intention, no language barrier can erase its true message. Time will pass, languages will morph, yet my original intent, the qualia of sensory sensation and emotion will remain. In some future millennium, a civilization much like ours, will stumble upon this sentence and be able to revisit, with perfect subjectivity, the thought stream of my mind. The stream, this tributary of mind sitting pooled on this page. Formed carefully into tokens of language, this currency of letters with which we purchase our thoughts. Now, let your eyes relax and stop tearing apart this block of black threads, allow the words to blur and release your focus on them. In the resulting haze the thought of my original intention once more becomes clear. Somewhere in this greyscale haze of black on white, there exists a bird in a cage. These letters are the bars and though the bird has room to spread its wings, it will never be truly free to fly. 0 comments

Night Stalks with Cats and Cops

I was busy studying tonight. It was getting late and I thought I could use the cool fresh air to liven me up. I threw on my coat, topped myself with my fine chapeau and out I went with my smelly load of compost in tow. I had barely reached the top of the stairs when Simon arrived beside me.

Rising his head up at me, Simon gave a probing meow asking, “time for some night time adventure?”

“When I get back,” I told him.

The blustering wind had died, and the night air was calm, cold and moist. The sky was partially lit by the stars which shone through breaks in the clouds. These night time clouds, hanging silent and dark while the Earth slept below them. Look how they pattern and organize the stars so far above them. The filter they form, day or night, structuring the sky with their billowing masses.

*Snap* Back to my chore at hand. I swung open the empty compost receptacle, its lid arcing on its hinge, before falling with a sonorific clamour. The slam echoed throughout the quiet neighbourhood, and somewhere a dog barked into the broken air. I disposed of my compostibles, and headed back.

I paused outside my door, peering through the screen to see if Simon was still waiting. He wasn’t in the entrance way; so I opened the screen door and poked my head in to softly call his name. I could see his nose and a few whiskers at first, and soon enough he came swiftly to the door, with another polite meowl. Just as Simon was about to cover the exit-way, Elle swooped in from her hiding spot. She darted between the door and Simon’s face, sliding onto the frozen porch. She quickly managed her way to the stairs, then down to investigate the lower deck. Now Simon and Elle were both outside, and I had never intended to let Elle out.

Elle is Simon’s junior by over a year and a half, this was her first summer, her first set of adventures outside. Normally these adventures were supervised, and for the most part guided by a 20 foot blue ribbon leash. Seldom did I ever take Elle out at night, and never loose. She’s as slippery as a fish, and she corners like a Lotus.

This was a problem, another problem was the fact that cats are extra wary at night. The slightest stir is enough to send them running. Elle would have a panic attack if she heard the thunderous gallop of a full grown Charles in pursuit of her. For this reason I had to proceed with great stealth, and make certain to not alarm her in any way.

By the time I made it to the lower deck, Elle had already started up the driveway, winding her way around our upstairs neighbour’s cars. Still at a trot she approached the end of the driveway and without hesitation crossed the road and onto our facing neighbour’s driveway. She continued merrily towards their garage, tripping its motion sensored light. The light was strikingly bright, and I paused for a moment to consider how my neighbours might view my stalking figure, as I quietly moved in a deliberate fashion. Slinking around in the shadows of their homes. This pause was significantly long enough that Elle could blend into our unlit surroundings, anxiously I followed after her.

Eventually we crossed the street back within our property. Foolishly I thought the battle won and slacked off from my close pursuit. I chuckled as it occurred to me that Elle was probably having the time of her life during this new and exciting midnight hunt. In her mind I could see myself as her companion, and as long as she was consciously aware of me I posed no threat. Elle and I were silently striding throughout the wild and scary new world of dark

This romance was short lived however, Elle had disappeared between the boards of our next door neighbour's fence; the chase was on again. I spotted her making her way along the latticework sides of my neighbour’s deck, quickly I ran around to the opposite side in order to head her off. I debated jumping the back fence, this however was not an option due to the terrible fright it would cause Elle. So instead, I carefully swung both legs over, trying not to harpoon myself on the pointed tops. By the time I had successfully managed this, Elle was passing beside the garage and towards the driveway. Another flash of light as my neighbours driveway lit up. I cornered Elle underneath their large black pickup truck, and unfortunately she ran instead onto my next, next door neighbour’s sided concrete porch. This was truly unfortunate, not for me however, but for Elle. She had misjudged the height of the gap in between the concrete and wooden planks. This was the last stop for Elle, I had her cornered and she new it.

“Come on Elle, there’s no where to go but through me…” I coaxed with my utmost cat charm.

“Yes, Yes, I am coming,” she mewled thoughtfully.

She turned and headed back towards me, angling for the space between my left leg and the entrance way. I crouched and prepared to pounce, she picked up her pace, and swiftly dodged my first body motion and leaped for my five hole. My feign was successful, I had forced her to make the first move, and I deftly scooped her up. My right hand on her chest, my arm cradling her body, with my left hand firmly on her upper back, I calmly walked her back up the driveway.

As I was walking back up the driveway, I white cruiser with no markings or hubcaps slowly moved up the street, coming to a stop in my drive, then slowly backing up and heading back towards me. A ghost car to be sure, driven by the type of man who thrills in silently rolling up on burglars and tazering them in their bollox. A damn good man when one is necessary. In this case however I simply raised Elle as I was passing, and gave him a large smile. This appeared to satiate the nightwatchman’s curiosity. He continued to slowly coast past me, and I did not look back. I need only imagine that my next door neighbour was watching me from his large front windows with his curtains fully drawn, and his silhouette plain in contrast. He’s a good man, more than familiar with Elle’s escapades, I am sure he’d understand .

I returned with Elle still wriggling in my hands, to find Simon waiting patiently below the deck. We all headed back in to the warmth and safety of our underground dwelling. Once in the entrance way, Elle discovered a moth and promptly went about batting it around. The moth made a valiant effort to escape, but with Simon chattering in the background Elle swiftly and mercifully struck it down. Our moth friend sputtered about on the ground, and before I could intercede, Elle had already begun to ingest it. It would appear she’s acquired a taste for insects and night air this summer.

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Okay, I know that killing a moth doesn’t exactly live up to one’s expectations of a “murder most foul” but eating one certainly upsets the stomach. If you want foul murders watch CSI, Americans love killing each other on TV. Otherwise I have plenty of amusing cat stories. :P

Cheers,

Chufre 0 comments