The restaurant was closed the following day and I was leaving that afternoon. What potent ingredient had been in the aperitif which caused the world to change before my eyes?
A seemingly innocuous ruby concoction which rendered people’s reflections invisible and gave me a voracious appetite for the steak tartare.
50 word story written in response to Teresa, The Haunted Wordsmith‘s Genre Writing Challenge. I’m not quite sure that I pulled it off, but it’s just a bit of fun!
Based on a strange evening I once had in Seville. I’ll tell you about it sometime.
I’m back in Cynthia’s flat and the main characters from my very-soon-to-be-published novel are all staring at me. They don’t look happy.
“The book’s going to be out soon. Aren’t you pleased?” I say brightly.
Connor stares at the bottom of his empty wine glass then looks directly at me “We’re pleased that you’ve set the wheels in motion, so to speak.”
“Good.” I nod. “I’ll get the draft copy of the paperback around Easter.”
Connor looks around the room at his fellow characters. Cynthia nods at him.
“Well, Ms Hall, the thing is…”
Lucy interrupts. “We’re sorry,” she says, squeezing Pierre’s hand, “but we’re not really sure about the cover.” She smiles at me weakly.
“Oh?” I shake my head. “Have you any idea how long it took and how many versions of my beloved’s artwork I uploaded before we, or rather I, was happy?” I frown at them all. “I’m really pleased with it. It looks really…”
“Old-fashioned.” Gina interrupts.
I was going to say ‘retro’ actually. Like a Penguin Original.”
“But why a drawing?” Lucy says, fiddling with her long golden hair. “Why not a nice photo of all of us?”
“That’s, er, not going to be possible.” How do I tell them they don’t actually exist?
Another true-life story of an author and her characters😉
He was dressed in an orangutan suit. It must have been itchy as he scratched himself rather a lot. Or perhaps it was part of his act. We thought it was just a prank, but then we discovered he was an undercover insurance agent, tracking a gang of kleptomaniac chimpanzees.
Connor turns from the window where he has been gazing out onto the empty street. “You’re the author, Ms Hall; we’re entirely in your hands.” He fiddles with the change in his trouser pockets. “But well, we were wondering, when exactly is our book coming out?”
I stare back at him, not comprehending the situation. My gaze travels around the room. Next to me, dressed in a blue silk caftan, legs curled up underneath her on the couch, is Cynthia. She is busy examining her beautifully manicured nails. Opposite sits Lucy, long blonde hair glowing.
“It’s just that it’s been so long,” Lucy says, a little breathlessly. “I mean…” her voice trails off and Pierre, her boyfriend, who is perched on the arm of her chair, squeezes her shoulder gently.
Lucy turns to Gina who is sitting in the matching armchair next to her. I notice she is fiddling with a shiny new ring on her third finger. The light catches the bright solitaire diamond sending patterns flashing across the worn Persian rug where Asmar, Cynthia’s cat, is lounging. He dabs at the flickering light with a casual golden paw. The blaring of a televised football match filters down from the flat upstairs where Gary, Gina’s boyfriend fiancé now? must be watching.
Gina sits forward and leans towards me. “It’s not that we’re ungrateful. We’ve loved our story. It was so exciting!” She pauses for a moment. “Well, mostly.” She frowns momentarily. “It all turned out all right in the end though,” she adds, grinning. “It’s just that, I’m sorry to have to say this, but we feel like we’re in limbo.”
I look around the room at these people whom I know so well; these people with whom I’ve spent so many hours.
Connor clears his throat. “Time waits for no man… or woman.” He takes his hands out of his pockets and puffs out his chest. “I have had a second slim volume of my poetry accepted for publication since you finished our manuscript.”
I gave you an agent, I think to myself. I fiddle with the pen I’m holding and glance down to see my notebook open on my lap.
Connor darts forward and grabs it. “Oh no, Ms Hall. No more changes. It’s done. Finished. You told everyone so.”
I hold my hands up. “I know. And it is. Finished I mean.” I sigh, my hands dropping into my lap. “I’m just waiting for the artwork for the cover.”
Connor nods gravely.
At that moment there is a knock at the door.
“It’s open,” calls Cynthia.
Tony Wong, whose flat is across the hall and who is landlord to Cynthia, Gina and Lucy, smiles and enters. He pads over the rug and holds out a bowl stacked high with pale brown crackers. “Would you like a fortune cookie, Ms Hall?”
I take one and pull out the little paper message, but it’s like one of those plot-halting moments. I can’t read a single word.
A true-life story of an author and her characters 😉
We peer out at the blank, barren landscape. Having landed, we’re not sure where we are. Or for that matter, ‘when’ we are. That’s the problem if you borrow the Professor’s Special Space Machine without asking.
But she’d shown it to us, tempted us. That’s the problem with having someone like the Professor coaching you for entry to the Space Academy.
But hold on, who’s that up ahead? Look, she’s waving.
We hurry forward into the bleak barrenness, but before we reach her, there is an ear-splitting sound. Everything goes black.
Later, when we come round, we are strapped into hard, upright seats facing a large spherical console. The Professor is standing opposite us.
We start to speak, but she holds up her hand for silence. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted to join the Space Academy, but I’m afraid the Great Zyborgatron has other plans.” She smiles weakly. “He did grant me one last request, however.”
Plates of burgers and chips materialize before us. We look at her; what did she say?
“Well go on,” she urges, indicating the food.
We eat. We devour the lot. It’s the best burger and chips we’ve ever had.
The building stands proud and prominent on a history-dense corner in the commercial district of the Big City. Not a member of a countrywide chain in a modern mall, this proudly independent book store has character. The floors are wood and mosaic and a rickety stairway leads down to the basement (children’s books and non-fiction, coffee and cake).
The author enters. Staff members are all busy with the stock. She peruses the shelves studiously. Virtually all of the fiction they carry is literary fiction. There is no ‘populist’ or mass-market stuff. Actually, these are the books which the author likes to read.
Awesome company surrounds her.
She ventures downstairs. The children’s books are for early middle grade and below. No YA at all. The coffee smells good and there are lots of comfy seats. A couple of students are chatting quietly and, at a rough wooden table, two women are deep in conversation over a laptop and a sheaf of closely typed pages.
The author sits down with a coffee and a rather dusty chocolate brownie. She selects a literary magazine from the low table in front of her and listens in to the two women. Eaves-dropping is second nature to an author, after all.
They are discussing which new books they are going to take for the store!
Dare she disturb them?
She thinks about the Margaret Atwoods and the Zadie Smiths upstairs. The beautiful book covers with their multiple reviews and recommendations. She hears them reject the latest Alan Titchmarsh.
She is intimidated.
She buries her head in the literary magazine. Time passes. She listens and ‘people watches’. For a Monday afternoon there are a surprising number of customers. She pigeon-holes them for future reference.
Finally, the two women finish their meeting and go upstairs. The author abandons the remains of the brownie; her mouth is dry enough as it is. She takes a deep breath, then takes the stairs.
One of the women is leaving, but the other smiles at her from behind the desk. The author approaches and enquires in general terms about the store’s purchasing policy. What the owner has to say is interesting, but not exactly encouraging. She explains how they know their purchasing clientele and what will sell in their store.
And here it comes. The woman’s guessed what’s she’s really asking. The author owns up and bravely tells her about her book.
The owner is very pleasant. She explains that they select less than one percent of Indie Authors’ work each year. Anything they do pick has to have a local ‘buzz’ about it. The author’s novel clearly doesn’t fit.
The woman is kind. Another might…one day.
The author reflects. It would be nice to have her book in a bricks and mortar store. But one book, amongst all these… and in just one store..?
So, this writer walks into a book store. She has a mooch about; she knows the store well. She often comes in, to browse (books are so expensive). It’s one of the largest book selling chains in the country. Nicely fitted out, and the staff are always friendly. It must be nice to work in a book store, surrounded by all those lovely books.
The writer picks up the latest copy of The Artist magazine. She’s written a few articles on behalf of clients which have been published in this particular periodical. Not that the artists get paid – it’s for their publicity. Nor does she get a mention, but at least the clients pay for her time. She has an idea for another of her clients.
But that’s not why she came today.
Clutching the magazine, she approaches the desk. One of the assistants intercepts her. “Can I help you?”
She takes a deep breath. “Can I just ask you..?”
The assistant smiles encouragingly. He’s a nice-look young man; intelligent, open-faced.
“Can I just ask you if the store supports Indie Authors?” (There, she said it).
The assistant smiles kindly; a little apologetically. “No, no, never. It’s all done by Head Office…with the publishers, you know.” He pauses. “There was this one time though…”
“Go on,” the author says, leaning forward, as if some major confidence might be shared; some key to unlock…
The assistant is speaking. “The lady’s books were selling very well. There was a lot of publicity. She was selling her books out of the boot of her car.” He shakes his head. “It was a bit greedy really. You know, on the part of the store. They realised they could make money out of her. It didn’t last long.”
The author nods. “So you have to be popular first?”
The assistant nods and smiles sympathetically (pityingly?)
The author nods. “I’ll just pay for this then.” (At least she asked. The ground didn’t swallow her up). She leaves the book store, head held high.
Written in response to the prompt by The Haunted Wordsmith: gingerbread, town, catastrophe
Photo courtesy of The Haunted Wordsmith
The county news station is reporting from the town of Gingerbread.
Recent storms have caused extensive damage to a large number of houses in the area. When interviewed the mayor commented: ‘We have run out of the sugar, corn syrup and ginger, and consequently rebuilding efforts have had to be halted. We have declared the situation a catastrophe.’
“It had all been going so well,” said the Lilac Breasted Roller to his mate. “Everyone thought we were the National Bird of Botswana. Even though there’d never actually been one.” The bright coloured little bird sighed heavily. “It was such a PR triumph just letting all those safari visitors think that.”
“I know,” replied the female. Her wings drooped.
“But now the Kori Bustard’s been given the title. It’s official.”
“That bird’s not nearly as pretty and charming as us,” she said flapping her bright turquoise wings.
The male sighed again. “You may as well close our Twitter account.”
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