The Mole

Donna walked into the building, one of three such facilities in the company, confident that she would carry out the assignment given to her. Her hopes sank as she looked around at the disorganized mess. The work stations were in sensible order but parts to every department were scattered throughout the building and people spent hours looking for items they should have readily at hand. Baskets of half completed projects sat in the way everywhere as people were pulled off of one product mid-stream and put on to another. Parts were just plain not there because the previous shift wouldn't make them. Frustration was high and tempers with it. 

"This is where we are going to put you," Tina, the line lead told Donna. "The other guy is seriously not fast enough and it's creating a bottle neck for us further down the line."

"Looks like no one is fast enough," Donna blurted out. "No wonder Jason Cooke is so anxious about this place."

Tina looked at Donna. "Yes, I have heard several times about that now. We do what we're assigned and if that means they call us mid-morning and change what we are putting out; then we do that." She motioned over to the man who was on the machine and told him to train Donna, and that she was from one of the other buildings and they had nothing to do there so they thought she might do this job for a while. He wasn't happy about it, but he trained her and went to the next process; something he was a little faster at.

Weeks went by and Donna kept talking to people and telling them she was only supposed to be there for a few weeks. 

"Oh, what are they changing now?" Sandy asked her. "I swear they change something every day. It is just making things more congested, and now I can't even get out of my area for the materials building up."

"Well, I talked to Jason Cooke and he said that won't last too much longer," Donna assured her. "You aren't doing that right," she pointed out to Sandy.

"Have you done this at your regular plant?" Sandy asked her, annoyed.

"No, I just know you should be doing that differently. You can do it faster."

Sandy eyed her warily. This wasn't the first time Donna had made such a comment to someone, including her, she observed, and the district boss Jason Cooke was spending an awful lot of time lately at their building when previously he had only shown up about once a week.

Donna smiled one day as she clocked in. "They had better watch out now," she said. "They are bringing in a bunch of the managers from corporate this week. They'll straighten out this mess. Tina got moved last thing yesterday to another area while someone else takes over her duties to see if they get this line moving better."

"It isn't Tina's fault if they call her and tell her to change the product two or three times a day. The plant that supplies us is knocking us all over the place by sending the wrong stuff all the time. Why don't they do something about that?"

"Well, I talked to Jason Cooke and he isn't happy about how this line is being run. Besides, he can move anyone he wants," Donna said.

"Whether it's right or not," Sandy replied. She turned away when Donna glared at her. "I'm busy," she said over her shoulder. "I wouldn't want Jason Cooke to think I was loafing off."

The management team converged onto the plant spreading like ants on the march. They made their ways through all the area getting under foot of the workers while asking them how it could go better and telling them it would get better. 'You can yell at us if the changes don't work," was said over and over again. 

Sandy was moved within an hour to another work station. That wasn't what they told her was going to happen. They told her the prep station would be manned and then she would do her job better. She was livid. Listening was not what they were doing at all.

"Don't take it so personally," Donna said. "I talked to Jason Cooke and he said you didn't tell them what they wanted to hear and you were just not going to go fast enough."

Sandy glared at Donna. "You need to seriously get away from me now." Her hands shaking with anger, she went to the new work station. 

At break Sandy talked to a few of the other employees whom she had noticed Donna talking to over the prior weeks. They all had said pretty much the same thing; Donna constantly talked about how much she had spoken with the district manager and seemed to know too much. They wouldn't even look at Donna for days afterward, or talk to her.

Donna sat in her car chewing her nails one at a time from her left hand. She typed furiously with her right hand on her tablet’s keyboard. I think they know. What do you want me to do? Send.

A few minutes later her tablet let out a tone alerting her to an incoming message. Go back in. They don’t know anything.

Donna showed up at her work station the next morning. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully to her coworker Sandy.

Sandy looked over at her and cleared her throat. She smiled back. “Good morning. You missed the morning meeting. They upped our production requirement again. How can they keep doing that?”

“Well, when I worked at the other plant they did that a lot. They just want as much product as they can get. I talked to Jason Cooke and he says they’ll replace anyone who can’t keep up.”

Sandy looked at Donna and her eyes narrowed. “They already moved me. The other person is going faster because I am working the process before her and putting things in order. It just can't go any faster until it is in order to begin with. I told them that.”

“I assure you it can. They’ll just send someone over from another plant to do it if you two can’t go any faster. They expect a lot of their employees. Don’t take it personally.”

Sandy turned and walked away in a huff. “Don’t take it personally,” she muttered. “How can I not? That is as much saying we're lazy as anything. I hate spies," she said under her breath. She turned back to Donna.

“What?” Donna asked.

“You know when they converged on this place the other day and got in everybody’s way they asked me what it would take to get me to put out more product and then told me after I answered them that they would fix the problems. They asked everyone the same question and when they told them they said the same thing. Three people have been moved from their work stations and I know I’m next, again.”

“Yes, you are, actually,” Donna replied. “I talked to Jason Cooke and you aren’t keeping up there either quite frankly.” 

“I am, actually. And why is it you talk to Jason Cooke so much, and why is it he tells you anything about a fellow employee? You aren’t a boss and you aren’t HR, so why are you privy to anyone’s information?”

Donna looked uncomfortable and cleared her throat.

“You are so busted. Why don’t you report back to Jason Cooke that your cover is blown go back to the other plant. And while you’re at it, you can tell him he just caused a walk out.”

Donna looked at Sandy. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Every sentence out of your mouth starts with ‘I talked to Jason Cooke and he said’ – or something similar. They really should send someone who can keep their mouth shut next time.”

Donna’s mouth hung open and she backed up. "We aren't union! You can't walk out!"

"That's right; we're not. They can have fun hiring new people at the last minute and training them to do what has taken us months to learn and years of practice. They can't have everyone come from the other plants; they won't have anyone to run them." Sandy smiled and turned away.

"But you can't!" Donna looked horrified.

Sandy put her fingers to her mouth and let out a loud whistle. The entire line turned towards her and she motioned with her head toward the door. Everyone picked up their personal belongings and walked out.

I Regret That Night

This is a writing prompt inspired story about a guy who accepts the generosity of someone after performing a concert. Accepting a place to sleep for the night ends up with him in prison. How would you handle something like this happening to you?

I Regret That Night

I used to be a musician. I wasn't well known, but I did all right. I slept in my van at most gigs out of town, but it was comfortable. Then there was that one night when it was really cold and that beautiful girl from the audience asked if I would rather stay with her than in the van. Dillon was so friendly and earnest in her concern for me, how could I resist? Hell, she wasn't even drunk so I didn't think anything of it. I usually get an invitation or two, but always turn them down since their invitation includes sleeping in their beds and Dillon's didn't. She had a pull-out couch that was comfortable she had told me. It was - a little too much so.

It was early October and a surprise cold front came through so I didn't have a blanket in the van. The audience was great, meaning no one threw bottles at the stage or yelled odd things for no particular reason, also known as heckling. I mean, who heckles a singer anyway? I have seen it my friend, believe me, and I have felt that bottle that didn't quite miss me as it whizzed past. Dillon was a blue eyed blonde and dressed to kill in tight jeans and a tee shirt to match. Her boots looked new like she didn't wear them often, but she was quite a sight.

When we got to her ground floor apartment she offered me coffee, another surprise, rather than something with alcohol. She said she had to work the next day and couldn't have alcohol in her system, but she didn't tell me what it was she did. She knew me though; a musician who could barely afford rent with four other guys in a small cheap apartment much less a hotel room after a concert, which was why I usually slept in my beat up van. I often took food with me rather than buy anything on the road. Yep, that was pretty much it.

Dillon had said before she went to bed that she was glad I was there, even though I was a stranger. She felt safer. I wanted to ask her from what but she just closed her door without another word. I must have slept like the dead or I would have heard that other person come into the apartment during the night. Some safety net I turned out to be.

Dillon didn't answer when I called out her name. I thought she might have gone to work already, but thought it odd that she would have left a stranger alone in her home and with no note either. Then I saw it; the blood on the door.

"Oh shit!" I said and shouted her name. "Dillon?" I opened her door and there she was naked as the day is long and very much dead. Her eyes stared at me accusingly as if I was the one who had done it. There was a belt around her throat and unfortunately, it was mine. She had cuts on her arms and legs too. That would explain the blood, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to see what else had been done to her judging by the position of her legs and the empty condom wrapper on the floor. I sighed and cried at the same time.

The police actually took me into custody when I told them I had never seen her before that night and she let me sleep on her couch. There had been no DNA and no prints on that wrapper, but that was my belt, so they decided we had a night of rough play and I got carried away and tried to make it look like someone else did it. I can't believe I got convicted on such flimsy evidence. I know whoever did it had to have had a key because she had that door locked with a really expensive deadbolt. The cops just wanted a fast conviction even though they never did break me into admitting to anything, and they sure enough tried to make me. I wasn't saving the State any money by confessing to something I didn't do.

If I ever get out of here, I am going to find out who did it. I am going to do the investigating that the cops avoided. I have a lawyer on my side trying to get me out. In the meantime, sleeping that sound is not an option. I probably won't sleep until I am either released or dead. Inmates don't like rapists, you see. They feel they deserve to get as good as they gave so being on guard is a twenty-four-seven job.

Maybe I'll see you on the outside one day, maybe not. One thing is for sure; I'll never be a singer again, and I will never accept the kindness of strangers.