Workplace Imagination の短編小説 & 小説

At the company’s quarterly awards ceremony, the CFO suddenly announced a new performance criterion. He produced a raffle drum decorated with lucky symbols. “Any employee who draws the grand-prize ticket will receive a quarterly bonus of $150,000.” After a few seconds of stunned silence, all my colleagues rushed forward, and somehow, every one of them drew a winning ticket. Yet I, the company’s top salesperson with a $60-million contract in hand, drew the only losing ticket. The CFO tossed a good-luck charm onto my desk. “Alex, you may be our top salesperson, but your luck is terrible. You’re going to drag the whole company down. “The company prepared this charm especially for you. Take it and get rid of your bad luck. Work harder next quarter, and maybe you’ll earn the bonus.” In an instant, all the colleagues who had once showered me with flattery backed away with mocking looks, as if I were some piece of trash that brought misfortune to everyone around me. I swallowed my humiliation and confronted my boss. He didn’t even bother looking up. “Mr. Lee is doing this for the company’s growth. As a veteran employee, you should understand. “Besides, it’s your own fault for having such terrible luck. Instead of wasting my time, why don’t you hurry to a church and pray?” I argued my case, but the security guards threw me out. Furious, I suddenly felt a strange sense of relief. I turned around and called our rival company. “I have the contract your company has been fighting us for. Would you be interested in making a deal?”

I heard a corpse speak to me in the police department's autopsy room on my first day of internship. It all began when my supervising pathologist flipped through the autopsy report and remarked flatly, "Classic suicide. Close the case." The captain of the homicide unit nodded without a word. Beyond the doors, the victim's mother had fallen to her knees as she sobbed in despair, nearly fainting from grief. I was the only one who heard the woman's raspy voice saying in protest, "I didn't kill myself." The hemostatic forceps slipped from my hand and clattered into the metal tray. Everyone turned to look at me. My supervising pathologist frowned at me in displeasure. "Summer, I know you're an intern, but you can't even keep your composure?" I stared at the corpse's pale, bluish face. The next second, I heard her speak once more, "The killer is in this autopsy room." The air in my lungs froze. Then, my eyes slowly settled on my supervising pathologist's bloodstained hands.

I had a psychic gift, so I joined the Missing Persons Recovery Network. For ten years, all I needed was a single lead to track someone down. With my gift, I'd helped bring more than a thousand missing children home. Then one day, Grant Halston, the richest man in Alderidge, flew in on his private jet to see me. He held out a photo of his eight-year-old son, a lively little boy with two dimples when he smiled. "Ms. Ellison, the kidnappers want a hundred million dollars in ransom, but I don't want to pay it. "Just find out where my son is. I'll get him back myself. And I'll give you half my fortune. Five hundred million dollars." My coworkers all gasped and started chiming in. "Mara, say yes! That's more money than you could ever spend!" "Didn't you say you wanted to expand the Network's search resources? Think about all the kids who still haven't come home!" "Come on, Mara. Take the job!" The offer was incredibly tempting. And with a solid lead, tracking someone down was usually easy for me. I was about to say yes when I took one more look at the photo. A chill crawled down my spine. Everyone looked at me expectantly. After a moment, I finally spoke. "I can't take this job."