Suicide. You think?   ( the middle) The middle tray was for problems that could not easily be resolved. True, sometimes a bit of paper might languish there for only a few hours. A few days.   Here are the rules.   Those were some sweet times, I'm telling you.     Let it all load, then follow the line and try to keep up. The crudely drawn dimensions were the best. Backs of school exercise books and the like. In amongst the doodles and the love notes.       Ready?     First shifted down there back in the 80's. Things had gotten a little too hot to keep hanging around the old neighbourhood. Go. Most folk born in three dimensions don't take to 2D life very well. But me? I did just fine.     ( my father ) My Father had a desk job. All his life he worked at this desk. This desk that had three trays. IN, OUT and PENDING.     ( problems ) But there were some bits of paper that lasted longer. That lasted weeks. Or Months. Or Years. Problems that, though I doubt my father could ever admit this to himself, might never be solved.   ( hate ) Now my Father, you must understand, was not a passionate man. But it was clear none the less, that he hated that middle tray.     weirdness PENDING a FICTION by daniel merlin goodbrey   ?   ?               ( the risk ) And every time he was forced to add another piece of paper to that tray, he took the same risk. That, for all intents and purposes, this new problem might never be solved And this, my Father hated. ( end )   ( desk job ) I don't know what kind of desk job it was. Maybe he told me once, but I don't remember. I do, however, remember watching him at work. In his office. At his desk.                 Another one? What did she die of? Hasn't said yet.   Want to see if I can find someone else? Hold on. I want to hear how she died.   ( paper ) His job, the best I could figure it, was to move bits of paper. The goal was to get each one from the IN tray to the OUT tray. Without getting caught by the tray in between.         Who've you managed to tune it in to? Some Writer.