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Commander of Worms

They used to force me into the dark 'camp' in the hedgerow. Inside they had constructed a floor of sorts using the broken bricks they'd found, and had even made uncomfortable little seats using old planks.

They would come for me at the start of playtime, two of them usually, grabbing an arm apiece. Not that it needed two. They were so much bigger than me, but I suppose maybe they were not as certain as I had believed them to be.

I'd be dragged, protesting, feet skidding on the rough tarmac of the old yard, and presented to Chris, the leader. He would ignore me for several minutes, having learned at an early age how to build tension, allowing terror to magnify. Then he would turn on me, thrusting his face into mine and shouting about what an insignificant little worm I was. I could only agree, for what choice did I have? All evidence seemed to point towards it.

Now, thirty years from that grotty yard and the stinking hedge, Chris is the manager of a large IT section in my firm. He has used the years well, perfecting his technique, building an army around him of insignificant worms who will do anything to curry favour. The IT section has been labelled as failing three years running and yet, somehow, Chris has managed to avoid blame.

Following the last inquest, sixteen of his underlings were summarily fired, escorted from the building without appeal, while he stood and watched.


© 2011 Kay Lawrence.

10th November 2011

Someone you have known perhaps!


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