A Concessionary Bus Pass and a Radar Key by Beck Collett

Sue took off her glasses, and gently massaged her glabella. She’d go on record to swear there was a direct correlation between her learning the proper Latin term, and one of her erstwhile writers causing her to frown more. ‘I understand what you’re saying, Janet, please don’t think me unsympathetic. It was an honest mistake. Nobody is suggesting otherwise. But we have rules.

I’m sure you can appreciate that I can’t bend the rules for you, mistake or not.’ Sue pressed the paper aeroplane icon, and exhaled loudly.

On the other side of the country, Janet sat seething at Sue’s email. ‘It’s discrimination, that’s what it is.’ Janet lived alone. Such was her bristling self-righteousness, that the very air around her was currently on the receiving end of her diatribe.

‘Dear, Sue,’ she typed, speaking aloud as she did so, ‘in response to your earlier email, I think you will find that that was evidence of you discriminating against me for being neurologically-impaired. If you only want perfect individuals to join your writers-circle, then you need to re-educate yourself and your illegal thinking. It was, as you put it, “an honest mistake.” I’m a very busy woman. I had knitting-group and book-club yesterday, and forgot to send my “Weekly Write” entry on time. But, as I said, I am neurologically-impaired. If you want proof, I’ve a concessionary bus-pass and a RADAR-key. What makes you think you can get away with this fascistic behaviour? I won’t stand for it. Please cancel my membership, I’ll take my talent to another group; one which appreciates my talents, and selects my work once in a while. Good day, Madam.’

In her office, Sue read the email, and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So, she did both.

Published in Issue #25

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