Short story: The Architect



Each day, the architect strides into his penthouse office with two hundred and seventy degree panoramic views and a large oak display table.

He is the first in every morning; not the indignity of a public subway commute for him. His chauffer wears a peaked hat and an inscrutiable facial expression.

He coughs importantly, leans over his large oak display table, and studies intently his past feats, waiting to be inspired by his own cleverness.

He rings for coffee and his diary at eight.

His secretary wears small diamond studs and a virtuous facial expression. She sits on his lap and strokes his ego.

The architect scrutinises his appointment book, which attests to his infamy around town.

He tells his obliging secretary to hold his calls.

He shuts his office door and peruses the view, hands knotted masterfully behind his back.

He sets a small fire in the waste paper bin.

He studiously removes each architectural marvel from his display table, laying it gently on the flames.

They are, after all, only constructed from paper.

He sits and waits for his lunch appointment.

His mother wears her husband's money and her son's independence in her handbag.

This is the result of a fifteen minute writing exercise. The only constrictions were the time limit and five randomly selected words from the dictionary. Today the words were inspired, commute, architect, virtuous, and infamy.

Image courtesy of photobrick.