“Gasoline”—Halsey
Dear Students,
Mr. Edwin Allen Mercer, NYT best-selling author, is accepting submissions for a possible co-author to collaborate with on his next novel. The submissions are open to all Creative Writing graduate programs in the United States. I believe this is a fantastic opportunity—a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. To be considered, please write a five-thousand-word short story and submit the final draft to Mr. Mercer's assistant via email. The deadline is strict and set for February 2, 2016, all entries due in by midnight EST.
Best of luck,
Dr. Russell
Master’s Program, Emory University
Email submissions to:
[email protected]
I push the announcement to the side of my desk and redirect my gaze to the computer screen. Flash. Flash. Flash. The blinking cursor taunts me—Write something, Miranda. It's just words… my fingers tap over the keyboard.
He slowly drags the blade over her skin, watching as her pale flesh tears open. Red blood seeps—Shit. Delete.
I watch the cursor wipe out that horrible sentence. Red blood? I roll my eyes. That's unoriginal.
Groaning, I slam my head on the keyboard. I've been sitting here for two hours and have a grand total of five hundred words. The deadline is midnight, and I need to write forty-five hundred more by then. Original words that will wow Mr. Mercer. My stomach knots at the possibility that he may very well read something I've written. How can I ever put words on paper that will impress a number-one NYT best seller—my fucking idol?
The first time I read one of his novels, I devoured it. Never had a story unfolded like that before. And his details—so graphic I had nightmares for weeks. His word choices, his characters, all perfect and fucked up. He possesses a gift that reveals the dark beauty, that carnal piece of humanity, that lives within all of us. Every single one of his works fills me with fascination, so how can I possibly write something up to that standard?
Stress mounts in my chest. Closing my eyes, I inhale. I massage my temples as I will my mind to come up with something. I would do just about anything for this position, and I swear to God, if Margaret Stanley's prissy little ass gets this collaboration…I'll kill her. My eyes pop wide, my lips twisting into a sly grin. If ever I had an idea that may get Mr. Mercer's attention, it's this.
An hour later, I have the perfect story of murder and mayhem, all centered around Mr. Mercer himself. The plot: a begrudged student who didn't win his contest kills the one who does. Simple. Genius. Compelling. Because maybe he'll worry I'll actually do it if he chooses someone other than me.
After I send the email to Ms. Barnes, I sigh. Right now, I have hope, and that's a feeling I rarely experience. Hope for a better life, for something that will set me apart from the rest of the monotonous, humdrum American society. This feeling, it's why people take risks. It's like that moment when you're holding fifty Megabucks tickets, waiting for them to announce the winning numbers. As long as you have those tickets, you can still daydream about all the ways you would squander your fortune.
It's late evening, and I'm alone at work. The best thing about this bookstore—the Little Novel Bookstore off Fifth and Main—is it's hidden away in a crappy part of town. Hardly anyone ever comes in here. There's only a single small window at the front, and once the sun goes down, the store becomes dim and gloomy, the perfect place for me to lose myself in my books. No people and a nice little reading retreat—well, it’s the perfect place to work, isn't it?
The bell over the front door dings, prompting me to bookmark my spot in Mercer's The Dark Deceit. It's the fourth time I've read it, and it still makes my heart race as much as it did the first time. I peer over the cramped shelves. I see no one, but I hear the soles of their shoes padding over the tile floor.
I nervously clear my throat, pushing a bit higher on my tiptoes. My heart slams against my ribs as I frantically glance around to see who walked in and why they're hiding. I have a habit of letting my imagination get the better of me, as I’m told most writers do, and right now all I can think is that whoever just walked in is, at this very moment, pulling a wool ski mask over their nose as they slink around the self-help section. My pulse pounds harder with each beat because I’m now vividly imagining being tied up by this stranger and screaming for help just before he slits my throat open.
"Miranda?"
I spin around, trying to calm my ragged breathing.
Freckle-faced James stands in front of the counter, smiling. "Did my book come in yet?"
"Oh, um…" I shuffle through papers and invoices. "Um, no. Tomorrow maybe?"
He nods. "You doing anything tonight?"
"Working."
"After you get off?"
I hate talking to people. I'm not good at it, and I try to avoid it at all costs. That’s one reason I'm studying creative writing, one reason I choose to work at this run-down bookstore. I want as little interaction with the public as humanly possible because, in general, I don't trust people. Ninety-nine percent of them make me uncomfortable.
"After work I'm going home." I reopen my book to the marked page and begin reading, hoping he'll see I don't want to engage in conversation with him.
"Let me take you out or something."
"No." I don't look up from the page.
You see, this is what James does. He comes in once a week, orders some weird, retired title, then he tries to talk me into going out with him. He's quirky and ugly. His brown hair is always slicked back; his blue irises do nothing but accentuate how bloodshot his eyes are. And he always has this pungent odor. I think it's marijuana. At least that would explain the bloodshot eyes.
"Ah, come on, Miranda. I ask you out every week. Just go out with me once."
"Why, do you want to kill me or something?" I glare at him over the corner of page 172.
He rolls his beady little eyes. "No."
"You're strange, James."
"So are you." He runs his hand over his greasy hair. "Well, I'll come back tomorrow. For the book, you know?"
I nod, and a few seconds later, the bell over the front jingles as he leaves.
Some people give you that creepy Dahmer vibe, and James does that. Sometimes I think he's debating what herb best brings out the taste of human flesh: rosemary or sage. I'd go with rosemary.
An hour later, I'm halfway through chapter thirty when my cell phone rings. I glance at the screen but don't recognize the number. Maybe it's Ms. Barnes calling to tell me I'm the student Mr. Mercer chose…
"Hello?" I try to keep my voice from shaking.
"Baby," my mother slurs.
Closing my eyes, I exhale. "What do you need?"
"Some more money. I need some more money. The heater broke and…"
A man starts shouting in the background. Glass shatters.
"Can you help your momma out, baby?" She takes an audible drag of her cigarette. That noise alone makes the wretched smell of her Virginia Slims fill my nose. How do smells do that?
"I don't have any money. I sent you half of my last paycheck, and I told you I couldn't do that again."
"Hell, it was only fifty bucks." Another loud draw from her cigarette. "You got that fancy scholarship. You don't need no money."
"Any money. Basic grammar. It's any money." I groan, frustrated by the reminder of what shit I came from. "I can't help you. I'm sorry."
I hang up the phone and toss it into my backpack. Within a minute it's ringing again, so I turn it off.
Honestly, I don't know why I sent her the fifty dollars I did. She's a drunk. A drug addict. She was barely able to take care of me growing up. I've lived in cars, bathed in gas station sinks. When I was twelve, we moved into some run-down project housing on the outskirts of town, and I thought we were rich. The older I grew, the more I realized the only reason we lived the way we did was because my mother was a loser and couldn't hold down a job. But if you were to ask her, she'd blame me for her lot in life. She had me when she was fifteen, ran away from home. She "did the best she could." I roll my eyes as I hear her saying those exact words.
But the worst thing wasn't the fact that I lived off stale drive-thru food or went to ten different schools from first to fourth grade. No. The worst thing about growing up in poverty was the ridicule. I wore the same clothes damn near every day. I couldn't take regular showers or afford deodorant. And how do you think that worked out for an awkward, redheaded preteen? Well, how it worked out is one of the reasons I generally don't like people.
What people say to you, even if you hate them, it fucks with your head. Ugly. Smelly. Dumb. So I didn't have friends. I didn't talk to anyone. I read, and eventually, I started writing. It was an escape. Fiction was the only way I stayed sane. But I didn't read romances or fairy tales. Nope. I looked for the gritty, the perverse. The dark. Because those kinds of stories gave me hope that there were far worse things in life than what I was dealing with. And that's why Mercer's writings are my favorites. Compared to the things his characters go through, my life resembles a Disney film, complete with singing, enchanted animals.
I always find hope. And as long as Mr. Mercer hasn't chosen a student yet, I still have hope.