Out of the Blue (a collection of short stories)

o n e

⁂   (1) Write a story that centers on a ransom note     ⁂
24/11/19

⁂   (2) Write a ransom note   ⁂
24/11/19

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🔵6. Write a story that centers on a ransom note🔵
Word count - 970

Remember the Dolly Parton song? Working 9-5?  Well, I work 8 until 5. That's how much my life sucks. The only saving grace of office life is the feeble 30 minutes I get to myself during lunchtime, this is the time I spend listening to Radio X and eating the beautiful concoction that is otherwise known as - a ham and lettuce sandwich. 

To many of my colleagues, they know that as soon as that clock chimes 1 o'clock I will be out of my chair before they can clasp their hands together, making my way twenty or so steps to the office fridge. There, I will spend ten seconds basking in the heavenly light of this kitchen appliance and taking out a tin foiled rectangle that holds my wheaty, buttery, hammy mess.

 Everyone knows that during this time, you don't talk to me, hell, you don't even look at me. Between 1 and half past 1 is the time with my sandwich, my tunes, and my break.
My time to relax.

That was why, at 1:01 pm today, when I was not yet back in my seat and instead, staring angrily at a stupid A4 note, people's heads began to turn.

"You all right Harriet?" one of the deputy managers called from across the hall.

I didn't reply, instead choosing to wave him away absentmindedly. 

 Was I all right? No.  No, I was not.

For there, where my sandwich normally sits (second shelf from the top, 4 centimeters from the left) was a note in its place. It was an A4 note, nothing unusual about it really, it had blue lines down the side and our company logo stamped at the top. I tore open the paper quickly - not in the mood for any unforeseen circumstances, and my stomach growled in protest when it read the words in front of me. 

Harriet,
 I have taken your sandwich.
Leave a packet of chilli heatwave Doritos by the fifth room printer or it will be gone forever.
 You have 30 minutes, tell anyone of this note and your sandwich will be consumed.

My chest rose in anger; I have worked in this place for nearly 5 years; do people not understand me by now?
 I do not joke around with food.
 I do not want to play a childish prank.
 I want to take my food, get back to my seat and listen to the newest Mallory Knox song.

Irritably, I scanned the room to size up to my situation.
James and Kevin were stood the closest to me, their backs were turned and they were pouring decaf coffee into their old, metal flasks. surely they wouldn't be to blame?
 To the right of me sat Deborah the accountant. She was tapping away on her keyboard with a framed picture of her deceased cat on her desk. Couldn't be her either, she's too depressed.
 Next to Deborah, was Marc. Marc was the office prankster but ever since I threatened to get him fired for handing me a phony Biro that gave electrical shocks, he had kept his distance.
Ben was the furthest away, he was sat texting his latest girlfriend, Elisha? Lenny? Who cares, I doubt it would be him, he only ever looks up when the doughnut guy makes treat delivery on Friday's.