It was a slow evening in the office.
The naming of things had pretty much come to an end. There would always be new things, of course, and someone would have to take responsibility for them when they arose, but as it was, things were pretty much named.
The only light was coming from the end of the of corridor. The two-person collective noun team were still working. That was just the way it was. Things were named first, obviously, then if they needed it, they were sent down the corridor to the collective noun team. To do their collective noun thing.
And now they were nearly done.
It was a creative job, collective nouns. Finding what fitted the thing, once it had been named. With a twist, if you could. A murder of crows. That one was talked about for weeks. A murder. Genius. If there had been awards for these things, a murder of crows would have walked away with it.
The trouble was, it almost came too soon. Shot their bolt, as it were. A shadow of jaguars was a good one, and with that one it looked like they were back on track, but an audience of squid was just lazy. And it didn’t make any sense. So it was with some relief that that this was probably the last night’s work of the collective noun department before they came back in tomorrow and packed it all up for the last time.
“Are we done?”
There was probably time for a beer, before the bars shut, which they did round here, still.
Then the phone rang.
“Collective nouns department.”
“Zombies! We haven’t got a collective noun for zombies. We need one. Now!”
Zombies. No, they’d not thought of zombies. With good reason.
The request was repeated through the receiver. They needed a collective noun for zombies, and they needed one now.
The style guide was against alliteration. But it was 10.30 on Friday night, the last Friday night, and the pub was waiting.
“Ziglet. A ziglet of zombies.”
He put down the receiver and turned off the lights.
Daily prompts from Putting My Feet In The Dirt