The Alchemists Of Vra

Opening Chapter-4

4

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MOST would find it disheartening to discover that after a fourth mug of hot-fin, the bleakness felt in needing a third hadn’t lessened. Vaasi-Vee put down her empty mug and stared at a mess of articles upon her desk. Around her, animals clacked at typewriters in response to approaching deadlines, before making telephone calls hoping to staunch them. Vaasi-Vee, however, did neither, no longer caring. Her colleagues might thrive in the vibrant fashion industry, but she did no longer.

She watched them with sadness and envy, having known the thrill of working for the prestigious magazine, Collars Monthly, With Particular Emphasis On Collars.

Recently, however, that thrill had waned.

The only excitement she’d experienced over past months was discovering that broccoli could also be spelt with one c. She looked away, their fervour grating in a manner that required bandages, and stared again at the articles upon her desk. She picked one up. Collars This Month Will Be Blue, it read, with a blank space underneath that she was supposed to fill in with reasons why. She considered submitting it empty with the suggestion that readers fill it in for themselves.

With a sigh, she looked out a window. Sky shone in a blue far more inspiring than any hue that collars could offer. Recently, the sky had held her attention more than the drivel her editor demanded. There were no clouds today, and its blue made her think of seas she’d never seen and probably never would.

An animal laughed and broke her reverie. Taking a breath of tired office air, she wondered what other parts of the world smelt like. She stretched to dredge enthusiasm from extremities. Finding none, she glared at the articles and fought an urge to sweep them from her desk.

She pawed through the papers to find a pen, before realising there wasn’t one. Their habit of disappearing recently did not help her demeanour, and she glared at nearby colleagues who clearly found amusement in hiding the things. Approaching deadlines left them too distracted to notice, however, until one reached for a telephone.

Being head feature writer for Collars Monthly, With Particular Emphasis On Collars, Vaasi-Vee was revered by her colleagues. In addition to natural talent, her sheer beauty and style rendered her amply qualified. However, her growing air of reluctant tolerance left them wary, and many found her more recent reclusiveness disconcerting.

A neat little dog hesitated over the telephone when noticing her glare. “Yes?” she asked. “Can I help you?”

“Well, let’s see,” said Vaasi-Vee, a well-manicured claw to her chin. “I’m certain you know why I’m glaring, so why don’t you tell me?”

“I’m sorry?”

“That’s better. Under the circumstances, apology is far more appropriate than feigned ignorance, isn’t it?”

A receiver was put back on its cradle. “I really don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do, though I am rather surprised that you haven’t tired of such games, considering I haven’t risen to their stupidity.”

“Stupidity?”

“Yes. Stupidity. Hiding pens is stupid. And because you’ve been hiding them for some time, then you must be stupid also. If this is your idea of amusement, then I feel sorry for you and suggest you get a referral to a specialist before you’re legally obliged to.”

The little dog looked around worriedly, as colleagues stopped their staunching to watch. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Vaasi-Vee had no interest in playing games. “Where is my pen?”

“I have no idea,” the little dog said. “Have you tried looking under that mountain of paperwork? After all, it’s been growing for some time.”

The room fell silent when everyone stopped to watch, and one took notes.

Vaasi-Vee stood and sat on the animal’s desk, relieved to find boredom had been replaced by animosity. “My pens,” she whispered. “Where have you put my penssssss.”

When she hissed the plural, the little dog shrank back and glanced around for support. None was given, however, her colleagues intimidated by proxy.

“You must have accumulated quite a collection by now,” Vaasi-Vee said.

“Look, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Even though I just told you? Well, that is unfortunate. I’m generally a most tolerant animal. but I take exception to those who believe that persistent inconvenience is amusing.”

When the dog’s bottom lip began quivering, she relented. She didn’t want embarrassment, she just wanted her pens, their absence an unnecessary addition to withering interest. She glared at their audience. “Where are my pens, pray?” she said. “Which of you has been hilarious enough to remove them?”

Although there was no confession, more notes were taken. Her interrogation was cut short when their editor, having noticing the absence of work-related cacophony, strode from his office to find out why.

“What’s going on here?” he growled at them. “Why have you all stopped clattering and scribbling?”

Someone held up a notepad to indicate that they were doing the latter.

“There’s no point scribbling if there’s no clattering, is there?” he said. “I’m not interested in scribbling unless you do the clattering. We can’t print scribble, can we?”

He pointed at a sign on the wall that read, We Can’t Print Scribble.

There was a murmur of agreement.

“I want to hear the clattering that comes after the scribbling. Your deadlines are approaching like express trains driven by your editors. And I should know, considering I’m the chief one. You should all be well past scribbling and getting on with clattering!”

More murmurs.

“So come on! I don’t want Patterns of Fluff Weekly and Whisker Style in Colour Bi-monthly getting a paw-hold on our readership!”

The murmur became a fervent cacophony of clattering.

“Vaasi-Vee,” he said. “May I see you in my office immediately.”

Without waiting for an answer, he returned to it. With a glower suggesting that upon her return, pens had better be waiting, she left the desk and strode toward his office. Her colleagues watched, wondering what would unfold within it.

With an air of inconvenience, Vaasi-Vee stood in front of another desk even messier than hers, and considered asking for more pens.

Her editor was a large dog with unkempt fur, and although he pushed them hard, he was kind. He sat behind his desk and looked at her for some time.

“Are you not going to take a seat?” he asked.

“I’m hoping this isn’t going to take long,” she said, staring at the wall above his head, “as I’ve got some clattering to be getting on with.”

“Would you like to tell me what was going on out there?”

Her anger felt warm. After feeling nothing for ages, it was welcome. “Not really,” she said. “But I’m thinking of putting it in a feature. You can read it then, if you like. Provided I can get back to my clattering.”

Outside, the din of typewriters had returned, which only highlighted her derision.

“Tell me, Vaasi-Vee,” he said, “are you no longer happy here?”

She shrugged and continued staring at the wall.

He stood and went to a window, where he peered at the clattering beyond it. “Most animals would give their right paw to work here, which is really saying something, considering it’s a prerequisite for clattering.” He looked at her. “You know, of course, that our triumph in circulation over Patterns of Fluff Weekly and Whisker Style in Colour Bi-monthly is down to you.”

“Yes. I know.”

“You are highly valued in this place, Vaasi-Vee. I don’t need to tell you that. But your waning enthusiasm hasn’t gone unnoticed. Frankly, I worry for your wellbeing in general.” He returned to his desk. “Although I’ve done my best to ensure that you’ve been assigned stories that might appeal, it’s clear that your excellent standard has become a struggle to find of late.”

Her stare dropped to the floor.

“I must say,” he continued, “that I’m rather relieved at your outburst, as it’s healthier than your recent months of stagnation. Tell me, is being head feature writer not what you’d hoped it might be?”

She relinquished the floor and looked at him instead. He deserved some explanation, even if she didn’t have one herself.

With a sigh, she sat on a chair. “Some animal out there keeps stealing my pens.” It sounded petty and she regretted it. After all he’d done for her, it bordered on tantrum.

He sat also. “Well, personally, I don’t think it has anything to do with missing pens.”

While he waited, she looked at the ceiling, hoping to find explanation on it. The incident over pens was the most she’d interacted with anyone for months.

“I think,” she said, “that I am entirely bored.”

“Bored?” He scoffed. “Bored with what? You’re head feature writer for the most prestigious fashion magazine in the world. You travel to exciting places, meet interesting animals and write brilliant articles for those having no chance of experiencing either. How can that be boring?”

She thought further. “It is not the work itself,” she said. “I know how much you have tried to give me stories of interest. It’s more a disappointment at the world in which they occur.”