***

“Credit Where It’s Due” is a sharp, economical story that captures a common workplace injustice with wit, restraint, and a strong eye for detail. It critiques superficiality and skewed recognition systems not by overt confrontation but by simply observing—and exposing—the truth with deadpan clarity.

It leaves the reader with a familiar sting and a smile, and that’s the magic of good satire.

***

"Credit Where It’s Due"

By Harry Arabian

It was one of those bone-chilling winter mornings when the sky loomed gray and the cold sank through every layer of clothing. I arrived early at the office, well before the others, the parking lot already plowed with neat lines etched in the snow. I parked close to the entrance, grateful to avoid a long, icy trek.

But as I stepped out of the car, I noticed something odd. While the lot was clear, the front steps were still buried under a thick layer of snow, save for one lonely set of footprints leading to the door—probably Jerry’s.

Just as I was about to make my way up, the front door flew open and there was Jerry himself, bundled in his heavy coat, standing at the top of the steps like a general surveying his frozen kingdom.

“Hey!” he shouted down. “Mind clearing the steps before coming in?”

Before I could respond, he lobbed something at me. I caught it midair—barely. It was a shovel. Or rather, a toy masquerading as one: the kind of miniature fold-up tool you'd bring on a camping trip to bury compost, not clear an office entrance after a snowstorm.

I stared up at him. He gave a cheerful wave and disappeared inside.

Muttering a few things that wouldn’t make the HR newsletter, I bent over and started hacking away at the snow. It wasn’t graceful, but I hacked out a jagged path—just wide enough to avoid a lawsuit.

Finally inside, I was rewarded by warmth and the welcoming aroma of fresh coffee and donuts. I hung the shovel on the paper towel dispenser by the counter like some sort of broken trophy and helped myself to a jelly-filled donut and the strongest brew in the pot.

Just as I was settling into the comfort of my seat, the front door opened again.

In swept Suzan, cheeks flushed pink, boots pristine, wrapped in her long fur coat like a snow queen.

She glanced around and beamed. “Oh, Jerry! I noticed the steps—so sweet of you,” she said, brushing a snowflake off her sleeve like royalty.

I nearly choked on my coffee.

Jerry, already buried in spreadsheets at his desk, looked up just enough to smile modestly and wave. “Anytime.”

Suzan disappeared down the hall to hang her coat, blissfully unaware that it was I who had cleared the steps, as evidenced by my snow-speckled pant legs and the still-wet shovel drying next to the donuts.

I looked over at Jerry, who now refused to meet my eyes.

“Thoughtful,” I muttered, grabbing another donut.

Somewhere between bites, I began mentally composing a note for the office suggestion box:
Request: Real shovel. Optional: Credit where it’s due.