Wow, I can’t believe it has taken me this long to find Aeryn Rudel’s wonderful site Rejectomancy
I’m a guy who landed his first published piece by blogging about the hidden meaning in all the rejection letters I was getting so it amazes me I haven’t come across Aeryn’s site earlier.
You basically score points for rejection letters, acceptance letters and the situations around them — like getting two rejections in one day or whether or not the rejection was a personal rejection or a form letter.
The XP points correlate to different levels which correlate to “spells” (which appear to be still under construction) and to Resistance levels, which have fun names like “Baby Bunny” and “Adamantium.”
I love the way Aeryn has taken something like rejection letters, a thing that can be negative on a personal and emotional level, and gamified it into something fun and motivating. This tells me a lot about how he must handle adversity. I wish I had that kind of attitude!
Make Believe comes to us from Kurt Fillmore. It has been [mistakenly] rejected by the following:
The Sun Magazine
The Atlantic
The Boulevard Magazine
Kurt provided the following Bio:
I was born in the central valley of California in 1960. I spent my early youth moving between Fresno, Merced, and Dinuba. After that I did a hitch with the U.S. Navy, reaching Photographer’s Mate 3rd class (E-4), and getting an Honorable Discharge in 1985. Along the way, I was writing. Some short stories, but mostly Motion Picture Screenplays. I never did sell anything, but my skills improved. I bopped from job to job, moving to Sonoma County in Northern California and getting training in Electronics technology. I began work as a Technician testing and repairing board level circuits in 1996. Various economic down turns took their toll and I was again moving from job to job. I’ve been working as a Technical Manager for a family fun center, or arcade, since 2015. After the Screen Writer’s Guild Strike I gave up on my dream of selling a screenplay and moved back to writing stories. In 2025 I made my first sale. ‘Make Believe’ is my second. I will continue writing fiction in various genres, inventing characters and situations that I hope readers will enjoy.I am active on Bluesky – where I follow writers, artists, and filmmakers.
When I asked Kurt what he loves about this story, this was his response:
As to what I love about this story, I think I love the first person immediate way it’s put together. When I wrote it I knew I wanted a back and forth between the director and the producer. Didn’t really have a plan, just let things evolve naturally.
Make Believe, by Kurt Fillmore
Charlie’s got me cornered up on a scaffolding. We’re watching as carpenters tack wood moldings down a length of wall, shots from nail guns sounding all around. Behind Charlie a pair of muscular twins, both union painters, sweep hoses over the facade, spraying brown paint in a mist and breathing through their respirators.
In a few weeks we’ll be filming the big bank robbery scene. I’m directing, from a script that Charlie, the producer, hired a writer to bang out. But Charlie’s been messing with the story, and I’m not happy.
“Two people come out of a building,” he says.
“Yeah, and?”
Charlie toys with the flaked end of his cigar, well chewed, but never lit. “I’m getting to that. It’s raining, see?”
“We’ll have to tent the cameras and bring in a crane,” I say, “spray rigs, hoses.”
Charlie waves off my concerns. “It’s cheap, Maxie owes me.”
About then I hear faint strains of music.
My one, my only prayer, is that someday you’ll care.
Charlie’s watch chimes “It’s Only Make Believe” every hour. On set he bunches up the sleeve of his suit and presses hard against his wrist at 8:59, then at 9:59, 10:59, and so on. I think his wife got him the watch, and some color blind, long-distance trucker turned fashion consultant talked him into that white suit with the wide, cream lapels.
I nod and check my own watch. Just two o’clock.
The craft truck, with treasures of iced bottled water, waits two stories below.
And Charlie stands between me and the ladder.
“The two people walk under a street lamp and we see it’s George and Annabell.”
I groan and look off at the horizon. The edges of Charlie’s mouth move down; the tip of his cigar sags.
“You don’t like her,” Charlie says, “I know.”
“I like her fine, Charlie. It’s a bit role, and what little talent the gal’s got I can work with.”
“A bit role? I’m talking about changing that. Putting more meat into it.”
Yeah, he’s putting the meat in all right, I think to myself.
I lift the screenplay, rolled into a pastel blue baton, and tap a clean spot on the scaffold’s railing.
“The last rewrite you submitted cost us three days. The one before that almost a week.” I smack the rail again, putting a crease into the paper. “No more.”
Charlie stands straighter, takes the cigar out of his mouth and smacks his lips.
“The story’s not done. I’m still exploring options.”
“You’re banging Annabell.”
“So what if I am? She’s talented. More than you with your little Clio’s and your ‘People’s Choice’ pretending to be a feature film, music video shit.”
In this business, scriptwriters get rewritten, temperamental stars get thrown out, and directors get replaced. ‘Creative Differences’ means that somebody somewhere didn’t want to play ball. You never hear of a Producer getting the sack — and I mean never.
“I’ll have to see the pages,” I say. “I probably won’t like ’em.”
“Like, don’t like, whatever, you just set it up and shoot it. That’s your job.”
“You’re trying to inflate her role. For what, a little more sack time?”
“Stick to pointing the camera around. Leave the details to me.”
I swear under my breath and duck under the railing, ever mindful of physics and the pavement below. I shimmy along the outside of the scaffold to the ladder and climb down, half tempted to toss the script.
I hit bottom and march to the craft truck.
Later that evening our little group has a banquet table at Morten’s. Charlie sits next to Annabell, who’s all thin giggles and heavy sighs. I’m across from Dan Arbrist, the money man from the studio.
“Mike, the footage we’re getting looks great,” Dan says.
Charlie leans in, “didn’t I tell you? The kid’s a natural.”
Annabell nips at her lower lip, gives a shoulder-hunching grin of joy. She clings to Charlie’s arm.
George Deveroe and Tischa Berringer sit to my right; the male buddies of our heist picture. George toys with a silver dessert spoon, moving a thin sludge of chocolate around the bottom of a serving dish. He smiles when he catches me watching.
The last man at the table is Achmehem bin Taschem. He’s putting up two thirds of the production money. The studio, via Dan, is putting up the rest. Charlie’s the hub. He purchased the story rights from a second-rate crime novelist eager to push paperback sales.
“There have been many delays,” Taschem says.
“A few things,” Charlie says. “It’s in the budget allowance. Speaking of which, I’ve got a scene to add where George and Annabell come out of the Depository building.”
Dan and Taschem stare at Charlie.
“We need it, hand of God,” Charlie says, raising his own. “Annabell’s the wedge that comes between George and Tischa. We’ve got to show the moment they connect.”
Charlie grabs his cigar, waves it at me. “And if Junior here would pick up the pace, it won’t cost us any extra time.”
Now Dan and Taschem stare at me.
“I’m right on schedule,” I say. “This is my first feature. I don’t need any delays; I want everything to go smoothly.”
Taschem nods. “Of course.”
Tischa pulls a cigarette from a thin, black metal case. He taps the filter hard against the metal, then stops. “Shit, we can’t smoke in here, can we?”
“Let’s go out on the terrace,” Dan suggests.
So out we go.
The heat has mellowed with a soft breeze coming up from the coast. The seven of us make a rough oval; talking shop about the movie and upcoming scenes.
Taschem opens his briefcase and lifts out a box of cigars.
“A gesture, for everyone.” He scoops up several cigars, cuts the ends with a bronze finger tool, and hands them out.
“To our success on this venture,” Taschem says.
Annabell cups her cigar. “Thank you.”
George accepts his, but Tischa declines with a wave of his smoking cigarette.
“Are these Cuban?” Charlie asks. Taschem nods. Charlie throws the worn stub of his previous chew toy off the balcony, bites down on the new one.
“Tischa, lend me your lighter,” I say.
Tischa flips the lid open, spinning the striker and igniting it in one smooth, even motion. He hands it over.
I raise the flame to the end of my cigar, but don’t light it.
“Actually Charlie,” I say, “you’re the man tonight; the reason we’re doing this picture.”
I lean towards him, enjoying his scowl as I raise the lighter.
Charlie glances from face to face, smooths his suit jacket with a free hand. “That’s, well, to say”
Taschem closes his eyes and purses his lips, waves his thick fingers beneath his own nose. “These cigars are the finest available to man. I’m sure you will enjoy their rare qualities. I relish them.”
Annabell’s arm is looped around Charlie’s. He’s stuck and he knows it.
“Charlie?” I ask. I grin, and light his cigar.
Charlie sucks and the flame pulls towards the end. The tobacco smolders, lines of combustion run along the edges of the leaves. Charlie draws in again, and the end starts to glow. Another puff and smoke billows around the corners of Charlie’s mouth.
I draw the lighter back and bring the flame to my own cigar. It’s good, though rather pungent. I lean towards George, Dan, then Taschem, lighting each in turn.
“Charlie, are you okay?” Annabell asks.
A flush of red shows at the hollow of Charlie’s neck. He draws away from Annabell’s grip, touches the tip of his nose with a finger. “Sweetie, I’m just…”
He coughs and a drip of something green flips over his lower lip.
“Excuse me,” Charlie says.
He runs, coughing repeatedly, and drops to grab the rim of a potted palm. He pukes, and up comes seventy-five dollars’ worth of beef, rice pilaf, and Dewar’s Gold Label.
Annabell darts towards him, legs swishing left and right, but Charlie’s already up and running to the rest room.
Taschem tugs the sleeve of Dan’s suit. “Is he all right?”
“I hope so.” Dan frowns, then glances my way, the whites of his eyes giving an angry flash.
I puff my cigar. “The delays we’ve had so far, have been story-related.”
Taschem nods.
“Assuming no more story changes, we should stay on schedule.”
“Very good. We add the Depository scene, and then we are done.”
“Right,” I say, “after that, no more story changes.”
Almost a month later and we’re on the studio back lot, getting pelted by man-made rain.
“And – Cut!”
The first assistant repeats my command and the camera eases to a halt. I give a thumbs up, adjust my poncho, and step away from the dolly.
We’ve been on night shoots now for over a week. George and Tischa have played out their friendship across steel cables, along the edges of buildings, and down service access ways into bank vaults.
“Let’s wrap,” I shout.
“Thank God,” George says. He disengages from Annabell, steps over the chrome track and walks around to the monitor. “Can I see the playback?”
“Sure.”
I tap the Operator on the shoulder and he speaks into his headset mike. A moment later the LCD flat panel comes to life; and there they are, George and Annabell, walking through a backlit cascade of rain. George pulls the monitor closer, extending the rod and swivel.
Annabell glances around, nibbles her lower lip again. Sorry kid, Charlie’s been laying low.
George shifts the monitor to the side and waves Annabell over. She crosses the rails carefully and ducks under the camera tent. We watch the scene play out and Annabell breaks into a huge grin when she and George kiss.
“Nicely done,” I say. “Good job George, Anne.”
Maxie, Charlie’s brother-in-law, steps up beside me. His poncho rustles as he looks around my arm at the monitor. He nods. “Nice. Kill the rain then?”
“Sure Max, kill the rain.”
Max sweeps two fingers past his temple in salute. He raises a walkie-talkie, thumbs the switch, and gives an order. The rain stops and clear blackness tumbles down behind it. Maxie wanders off to see about hoses and other matters.
Everybody removes their rain gear. The grips start tearing down stands and unhooking cables. The Operator and Focus Puller unbolt the camera from the dolly jib, then place it carefully into its aluminum crated foam.
The First Assistant hands me a clip board with tomorrow’s schedule. “Good one Mike,” she says. “Print ’em all?”
“Last three,” I say. Then to George and Annabell, “Call’s at six.”
Annabell shivers as she tugs the soaked coat free from her shoulders. “How many more nights on the schedule?”
I check. “Just two, we’re zooming right along.”
“Now,” George says.
I smile. “Yeah. Now.”
All the details get tidied up and I walk away from the facades, down the pavement and along the back lot buildings towards my car. I hear water trickling from somewhere; maybe a drain. As I walk the sound gets louder, the syllables more distinct.
I look up to the tops of the buildings. Girders and braces form triangles, shoring up what appear to be coarsely grained bricks of Brownstone buildings. An eight inch hose snakes below the truss, black against silver, held up by loops of rope.
There is still the sound of water.
I groan, then shift my shoulders, moving around a frigid drip that’s run down my neck. I look up and spot a stream of water escaping from the hose and arcing over like a crystal geyser into my convertible.
My car is full of water. The body has squashed down over the tires and now rests almost on the rims. Ripples lick over the surface; dart between the headrests. A flotilla of baby ducks could paddle back to front, plunge down, and feed over the floor boards.
Then I hear music, faint but getting closer:
My hopes, my dreams come true, my one and only you.
Charlie and Maxie come around the corner, Charlie’s arm wrapped over Maxie’s shoulders.
“The rain was beautiful, just beautiful,” Charlie says. “We might get an Oscar for cinematography.”
They both stop at the sight of my convertible. Maxie laughs then cuts it short with a hand fastened to his mouth.
“My god Mike, I’m so sorry,” Maxie says. “I thought I was losing water pressure somewhere.”
Charlie chews a new cigar. He looks down at the sheets of water pouring over the door of my car, splashing across the pavement, and puddling at his feet. He smirks at me, lips curling up around those neon white, capped teeth.
“I hope those Clios are water proof,” Charlie chuckles.
“I’ll shut it off at the mains. Right now,” Maxie says.
He and Charlie walk away, but it seems to me that they’re not hurrying much.
I grip the door handle, and open it, letting loose the inevitable flood.
A week later and I’m standing in a Marigold orange vestibule at Casa Charlie. Someone’s hung a neon painting of the Madonna on black velvet in the alcove on the right.
“Mike, I’m so glad you could make it,” Mrs. Charlie says. “Did you get your car fixed up?”
“Yes Ma’am, it’s in the shop.”
“Call me Helen,” says Mrs. Charlie. She’s ten years younger than Charlie, and her arm flesh wobbles a bit beneath several layers of white silk. She toys with a chunk of Tiffany that hangs around her neck.
“I hope it wasn’t expensive.”
“Nothing that a three picture deal won’t fix,” I say.
She laughs. “Come in and join everybody.” She steps towards the living room, then frowns back, eyes narrowed. “Yes?”
I point to the Madonna. “One of yours?”
“God no. Charlie won’t let me take that hideous thing down. I’m tempted to throw a drape over it whenever we entertain.”
I chuckle and follow her.
She gives me the short tour, and along the way I get introduced to society mavens, a few film critics, and one member of the Motion Picture Ratings Board who also attends Mrs. Charlie’s church. The house is open to the gentle night air. Festive lights fill the expansive drawing room, illuminating various groups as they move from the open bar and Hors d’oeuvres table to the Tiki torches outlining the backyard.
Mrs. Charlie drops me off and goes to make sure the ice buckets are full. She never makes it, strutting away instead to answer the jangle of the doorbell.
George, Tischa, and Annabell stand beside Charlie, along with another man I don’t know.
“I’ve thought about it,” Charlie says, “and the only thing that makes sense, is that Annabell’s an FBI agent, undercover.”
“Could be exciting,” the other man says.
Dan the studio rep joins us, a tumbler of golden liquid over ice in his hand.
“FBI?” Dan says.
“You bet,” Charlie says. “If Annabell can get both guys falling in love with her, it throws their game off. And if she’s a fed, then George and Tischa are in huge danger. They could get arrested, they could get shot. It changes everything.”
Dan sips his drink, “I thought we agreed no more changes.”
“The story’s got to have what it needs,” Charlie says. He grins at Annabell and she wrinkles her nose like a pleased little ferret.
“We already have a story, Charlie. You paid for it, remember?” I say.
“That story was shit.”
“But it’s the story we promised the studio,” I say.
The other man’s face pales a bit. “You are gonna to make the release date? Right?”
Ahh- another studio bean counter.
Dan sighs. “Of course we’ll hit the date. Mike’s got thing’s moving pretty well.”
“I don’t want any more story changes Dan,” I say. “I’ll be sweating in post just to get this thing cut the way it is now.”
“Junior’s a little nervous is all,” Charlie says. “A woman brings in the female ticket sales, you know, the love story angle.”
Dan’s eyebrows go up and he nods.
“See?” Charlie says. “Drama. The kid doesn’t know how to make a good story yet, but I’ll teach ‘im.”
I hold back any retort. After all — the producer never gets the sack.
I spend the next hour fuming and drinking. A lady film critic pesters me about our project, asking for “just a few juicy bits, for my readers.”
We’re standing in the backyard. The hot tub is silent. Cupped petals of frosted white plastic hold floating candles that drift across the larger body of the pool. Reflections from the Tiki torches bounce across ripples stirred up by the night winds.
“Sorry,” I say, “the only thing juicy here is you.”
She blushes on que then gives me her business card and pirouettes away. When I glance up from reading her phone number, she’s smiling over her shoulder at me.
I smile back, then wander inside to freshen my vodka.
“You should eat a little something Mike,” George says.
I cap the bottle and glance at the tidbits on the next table. Nothing looks appealing.
“How are the crab cakes?” I ask.
“Not bad. Better than three shots on an empty stomach.”
Annabell has been hovering about the food table. As much as I’ve been drinking, she’s been sneaking bites of cheese, sausages, and crackers. Now she’s grazing towards the spinach dip and pita platter.
“I ate earlier.”
“Don’t like party snacks?”
“Not so much, no. What’s Annabell drinking?”
George looks over. “White Zin, I think.”
I nod, put my own glass down and uncork the bottle. I walk over.
Annabell pokes half a pita chip into her mouth, then swallows quickly and tries to hide it. “Mike. Hi. How are you?”
“I’m doing good Anne.” I raise the bottle and she smiles and holds out her glass.
“I don’t know what year this is, but I like it,” she says.
I fill her glass —
— and slip my present into her handbag.
“So tomorrow we shoot George and Tischa breaking into the vault,” I say.
“Silly boys. They’re hogging all the glory.”
I smile. “The story is about two guys robbing a bank.”
“Charlie says he’s going to schedule some reshoots.”
Something in my face puts her on the defensive. She squirms, knowing that she’s given away some secret.
“Charlie said he wants to focus more on me, on what my character is going through.”
I clear my throat. “Okay,” I say. “If that’s what Charlie wants.”
“Really? You’re all right with that?”
I shrug. “Come the day, we’ll shoot the scenes and see what happens.”
Annabell hugs me, and I nearly drop the wine bottle. I glance around, but nobody notices my shock. She steps back, “I’m gonna have to rethink you, Mike.”
“Rethink?” I say.
“You surprise me,” she says, then scrapes white cream cheese and green spinach onto a cracker.
I cock my head and grin. “Sometimes I surprise myself.”
Later I find Charlie presiding over Dan and the studio bean counter. Dan’s eyes droop, his chin follows, and then he jerks his head upright.
“Not boring you, am I?” Charlie asks.
“It’s getting late,” Dan says. “I should go.”
“You should have Mike drive you,” Charlie says.
The other man grins. “Someone with some sobriety should drive,” he says, and Charlie laughs.
“I’ve got to be going as well,” I say. “Charlie? When were you going to tell these gentlemen about the reshoots?”
Charlie chokes a bit, glances from face to face. Dan is suddenly alert.
“That was just, something I was toying with,” Charlie says.
“Annabell seemed fairly keen on it.”
The other man squints his eyes at Dan. “Missing the release date kills the deal.” He looks at Charlie. “The picture’s already booked. We’ve scheduled advertising, junkets, merchandising plugs. We can’t miss the date.”
“We won’t miss the date,” Charlie says. “Mike’s just got to quit using those fancy camera setups. They take too much time.”
Dan’s jaw flexes. “I think I’m with Mike on this one, Charlie. No more story changes, and reshoots are out of the question.”
“It’s not a reshoot per se,” Charlie says. “Just a few pick-ups. To focus on Annabell’s FBI thing.”
“No,” Dan says. “I can call Taschem to confirm if you want, but I know what he’ll say.”
Charlie goes rigid, then runs his hand over his jaw, behind his ear, and into his hair. He relaxes himself.
“Okay. Like I said, I was just toying with the idea.”
“Fine,” Dan says. He turns and walks towards the front door, not saying goodbye.
The other man follows.
Charlie glares at me as soon as soon as we’re alone. He takes the cigar out of his mouth. “You think you’re smart, huh? You think you can beat me?”
“I don’t want to beat you Charlie,” I say. “I just want to finish the picture. On time. The way it was written.”
Charlie starts to say something but Annabell and Mrs. Charlie walk up, tittering over some girl talk.
“Good night, Charlie,” Annabell says. “Thanks for the lovely time.”
“You should stick around,” Charlie says, “things are just getting interesting.” He gives me a scalding look.
“Early call you know. This film’s very important to me.”
“You’ll have to get used to all this attention,” Mrs. Charlie says. “Once you’re a big star I’ll expect you at all my get-together’s.”
Annabell grins and hunches her shoulders. “Okay. Sure.”
Mrs. Charlie gives her a peck on the cheek.
And then we all hear the music, loud and clear; My only prayer will be, someday you’ll care for me.
Annabell digs a watch out of her handbag. Her face flushes and she gasps, as if fighting for a breath.
“Honey,” Annabell says to Charlie, “you must have left it the last time we …” and she stops, unable to finish. She gives frightened glances at Charlie, then to me, and finally to Mrs. Charlie.
Mrs. Charlie’s eyes go wet. Her lips push tightly together and the corners of her mouth pull down hard.
My stomach clenches and a spasm starts in a muscle towards the back of my thigh. I don’t feel clever anymore. I feel like shit.
“Helen, please,” Charlie says.
Mrs. Charlie bolts for somewhere else, her waving hands leading the way. Charlie goes after her, leaving Annabell reaching for his back. Annabell whirls on me, spots my guilt, and throws the watch at my face.
I spend a rough night, waking up several times with the sheets tangled around my legs; body coated in sweat. At about four, I throw myself into the shower, drag on whatever clothes I find in the closet, and drive my loaner to the studio.
I wander around the bank vault set, downing my second cup of hot coffee, my mood improving.
I stroll behind the riveted steel plates. On this side they’re just plywood sheets, braced with one by six boards held by screws. Thirty feet overhead are the catwalks where Electricians hang lights. Farther up, the roof girders are streaked with rust. Pink fiberglass spills out from torn plastic hung between the beams; reality is dirtier than illusion.
Turn the corner and I’m back in a two story, maximum security bank with motion sensors, cameras, upper balconies, and security terminals to unlock the gleaming, chrome-plated vaults.
But it’s not real. It’s just kids playing ‘make a fort’ with empty cardboard boxes.
Mrs. Charlie’s face comes back to me and my stomach clenches again. I only met her the one time, but I know she’s real. Annabell’s real. Even Charlie, poor pathetic Charlie, is real.
I sigh and drop my chin to my chest, then walk up the stairway grating to the upper balcony. Pretty soon the rest of the crew starts to arrive.
“Do you know what you did?” Charlie says. His voice, full of gravel and venom, carries across the set. Several grips working below set up C-Stands and lights. Electricians lace cables across the floor. Nobody approaches us to ask about the first shot of the day.
“Helen was screaming at me. Screaming.” Charlie raises his arm, pulls back his sleeve, and waves his watch in my face.
“I showed her I still had my watch; God damn it. It took all night to try and convince her it was just a mistake.”
I sigh, then look at Charlie’s face.
“So. Now what?” I say.
“Now what? You’re fired is what,” Charlie says. “You’re so fired. You’re fired back to some ad agency making ice cream commercials.”
“Charlie,” I say, “you win.”
“Oh, I win?”
“Yeah, you win. Anything you want, I’ll do.”
“Oh, now you’ll do what I tell you?” Charlie says. “Like you suddenly got smart and realized who’s in charge around here.”
“Like I got smart and decided what’s important.”
Charlie looks me up and down like he can’t figure out why I’ve changed my mind. The end of his cigar waves in the air as he thinks.
“If you have to get somebody new,” I say, “it’ll just take them more time to finish up.”
Then Charlie bristles and dismisses me with a wave of both hands. “Forget it, you’re fired. You march your ass off MY set. I’ll finish this bitch myself if I have to, but you ain’t here. Not anymore.”
I glance around the upper balcony, from the lights above to the set floor below.
It had been a nice ride.
I shuffle past Charlie towards the stairs. “Try not to ruin the picture, Charlie. It was a pretty good little story.”
“Piss off. You wouldn’t know a story if it landed on you like a bird droppings,” Charlie says. He turns away from me and heads around the balcony.
“Charlie, stop!” I shout.
He flips me off over his shoulder and keeps walking.
I sprint towards him. “Charlie!”
The crew all look at us but nobody can prevent it.
Charlie steps past the secure, braced area of the balcony and onto the fake section.
The balcony splits and balsa gives way, crumbling as Charlie’s bulk plunges through. He gives a surprised shout that separates him from his cigar. There’s a flash of white suit, and Charlie’s gone.
Crew members race across the floor and I see my Second Assistant already on the walkie talkie, calling for paramedics. A Grip pulls back a wall panel, and one of the camera guys helps. Nobody gives a damn about union restrictions in an emergency.
I creep towards the hole in the balcony and peer down to where Charlie lays, his right leg bent out from his body at an unnatural angle.
Then we hear the music:
But it’s onnnnnlllly make – beeeelieve.
We can’t help ourselves. Everybody on the crew checks their watches. It’s a seven a.m. call.
The ambulance finally arrives and they get Charlie hoisted onto a gurney. At the hospital, they take good care of him. The arm break is bad, but manageable. The leg’s worse, but a metal pin and a cast take care of that.
Afterward, we don’t see much of Charlie. He spends the rest of the production at home in bed, his leg in a sling, watched over by the ever-dutiful, and ever-possessive, Mrs. Charlie.
Filming moves forward and something shifts.
We shoot the remaining scenes as written, no delays, no rewrites.
Post goes great; the music and sound effects come together like we’d planned it that way all along.
At the first screening, everyone claps. Some of the crew even cheer. Once the film gets released it brings in solid box office numbers. A weight lifts off my shoulders I didn’t even know I was carrying.
I’m offered another project, and for once, I don’t hesitate. Even the lady film critic calls back.
George and Tischa split off for solo roles, each with nice salaries.
Let’s face it the world’s a little rough around the edges right now. We’re all just trying to hang on with a sense of dignity and maybe some semblance of joy. What better way to bring that spark back than through laughter?
Humor in writing isn’t just about cracking jokes or tossing in a punchline here and there. It’s also about making people feel a little more hopeful. When you get someone to laugh—really laugh—you’re giving them a moment of relief, and that’s no small thing. In a world full of stress, division, and doomscrolling, writing that makes people laugh is practically a public service.
But Humor Writing is Hard
Yes it is. Humor writing is an art form that often doesn’t get the respect it deserves. It’s not easy to be genuinely funny on the page. Timing, voice, rhythm all has to be just right. It took me several tries and multiple submissions before I landed a humorous list article in Chortle
It’s true that there aren’t a lot of markets explicitly dedicated to humor fiction but that doesn’t mean the world isn’t hungry for it. We live in a content-rich era where new voices and niches emerge every day. If you’re funny and you can write? That’s power. That’s potential. That’s brand-building magic.
Look at the Legends
Let’s talk about The Simpsons for a second. When that dysfunctional, animated yellow family debuted in 1987, there really wasn’t a flourishing market for adult animated comedy. But now we have Family Guy, South Park, Archer, Rick and Morty, BoJack Horseman, and even Futurama (RIP) They all owe a nod to that one oddball show that made us laugh and essentially started a whole market segment. That one funny voice became a cultural juggernaut and opened the doors for countless others. Humor doesn’t just entertain it expands what’s possible.
So What’s the Takeaway?
We need more funny people in the world right now. If the geopolitical landscape is telling us anything at the moment, it’s telling us that we need clever observations to remind us not to take it all too seriously. We need stories that make us laugh and forget our troubles for a few minutes.
So go forth and write something hilarious. Be brave enough to be funny. Your sense of humor might just be someone’s favorite moment of the day.
Side note: I am going to be a first reader for Alex Shvartsman’s UFO anthology again. He is up to number 10. I believe submissions will be opening up around April 2026, so start working on those humorous Sci-Fi stories!
This weeks story comes to us from Y. Len. Y. Len’s spoken English is barbed with foreign accent and imposter words from several other languages. (Y. Len’s words not mine.)
Since 2021, Y Len has had seven short stories appear in magazines and anthologies and one was voted the best horror short story of 2023 by the Critters Annual Readers Poll. In 2025, the first professionally narrated story was featured in the Tall Tale TV podcast.
This story has [mistakenly] been rejected by:
The New Yorker
The Paris Review
The Craft
Here are some of Y Len’s ready-to-read/listen links:
What do you love about this story? This piece began as a dark psychological reflection on aging and grief, but at the time it quickly stalled. I set it aside for more than a year, certain it had reached a dead end. Then, unexpectedly, the story returned to me with a different perspective and a new ending—one that reshaped its entire meaning.
Hope By Y. Len
Hope loads the toaster and asks, without turning her head, “Do you remember the Johnsons invited us…”
She realizes the question implies he might have forgotten. Worse, it suggests she knows he forgets things. In hindsight, You do remember would’ve given the question a gentler spin, but it’s too late now. She bites her lip, bracing for him to cavil.
Her surprise, when he doesn’t, curdles into frustration with forgetting his name. Dan? Ben? Stan? She closes her eyes but sees only a red circle with a blurry-white horizontal bar in the middle. Oh well, does it even matter? After some forty years together, is it so inexcusable to forget seldom used details?
“As people age, they confuse changes in themselves with changes in the world, and changes in the world with moral decline—the illusion of the good old days . . .” drones a voice on the radio.
Hope wants to turn it off, but there comes one of those . . . feelings? For lack of a diagnosis—she’s never seen a doctor about episodes like this—Hope thinks of them as SenSations with two capital Ss. This one makes her feel being behind a glass wall. She stretches her hand toward the radio, and the tips of her press-on nails scrape an invisible obstacle. A cobalt-blue chip breaks off from her index finger and falls to the dirty kitchen floor.
Clop-clop, clop-clop. The upstairs neighbor, Max—a sexagenarian—crosses his kitchen. So it’s seven twenty-five now; she doesn’t need to look at the clock. It’s happened day after day for years. Max’s cane thumps the ceiling like a metronome. Hope counts the beats. Seven. Then he opens a water faucet.
Hope opens the fridge. The cold inside smells of sour milk and something else, something going or already gone bad. Yogurt cups stare at her like regret bottled for later. He used to mock her homemade yogurt. But near the end, there wasn’t much food soft enough for him to swallow.
Of the four eggs left, one is broken, its contents leaking into the carton. The remaining three seem to whisper in protest as she cracks them open. The yolks spread over the pan—wide and glassy—like jaundiced eyes.
“Over easy and crisp bacon! Ready when you are.” Words ricochet from the tiled walls. She lowers her voice to ask: “How’s your stomach?” And bites her lip again. Why ask if she knows the answer? Now he’s going to grumble about the cramps he’s been having all night. Then he’ll say that greasy fried food in the morning is disgusting—which would mean that he’d slept badly or not at all. And how could it be any different? He had four snifters of Jim Beam last night and kept switching TV channels until two in the morning.
Then he’ll slam the hot pan on the table, ignoring the three-legged trivet. Today, the trivet is coated in something dry and reddish. Tomato paste? She doesn’t remember cooking anything with tomatoes or tomato paste, but she hopes anyway.
Then he’ll eat it all except for one piece of toast.
Outside the window, the sky hangs low and the gray morning promises to become a gray Indian summer day. Hope considers taking her coffee mug and the remaining piece of toast out to the garden. She’d have to wade through the hip-high grass by the apple tree, shake off last year’s leaves from the garden table’s cover . . . not just leaves, but also dead bugs, snails, spider sacs . . . and the chair’s arms may be spotted with black mold . . . She hesitates. Still, she could go . . . or not. She could rot there or here—
“What’s wrong with you?” His vowels sag, curling at the edges like old linoleum, and Hope braces for the follow-up: a “bloody this” or a “proper narky that.” None comes.
She turns toward a shriveled ashen face under the remnants of a Mohawk combed and gelled across the balding pate. Ears fuzzed with tufts of gray. Water droplets glistening on salt-and-pepper chest hair.
Wearing briefs, as faded with age as he is, the man whose name escapes her settles at the table. The briefs—living up to their Go Buck Naked brand name—stretch and sag. What better image of withering and decrepitude than a bulge of a man’s scrotum with no sign of that other part the scrotum is supposed to attach to?
Hope’s eyes dart up as she asks, “What’s wrong with you?”
“You know, I didn’t sleep well last night.”
“I know.”
He nods with a faint smile. “You do remember the Johnsons invited us for lunch today?”
“What?” Hope flinches. “I asked you that question just a minute ago.”
“You tried.” He chuckles. “I had a dream,” he says and looks around. “All this was in it. This gray morning, you, me, eggs and bacon, Max at seven twenty-five.” He turns his face toward the ceiling.
You’re a damn clairvoyant now? Hope stifles a laugh and says, as matter-of-factly as possible, “All that happens every—”
“And even”—he stabs the air with his index finger—”I saw your thoughts.”
The sagging skin on his neck shakes. Hope thinks of a turkey, then of their last Thanksgiving and the past in general.
#
In their salad days, Dan had been an arrestingly handsome hunky beefcake—loud-mouthed, tart-tongued, wasteful, affectionate and gentle. His laugh had a rasp to it, like gravel dragged through honey, and when he touched her—casually, possessively, reverently—her breath caught, every time.
He loved women, wine, gambling, and exotic food. In Marrakesh, he’d spent an entire afternoon sweet-talking an old butcher into revealing the secret spice blend for lamb tajine, only to forget half of it after three glasses of arak. He’d wanted to open a restaurant once—“a shack with silver cutlery,” he called it—but Hope knew it was the idea he loved more than the work.
They cooked together, often and loudly. Pilau in a dented cauldron from Istanbul, the kind you had to squat beside on the floor. Ben ate with his hands, scooping up saffron rice and chunks of meat, smearing turmeric and oil across his stubbled cheeks. At first, Hope demurred, brows raised and fork in hand. But after a few weeks—and a few persuasive kisses—she gave in. There was something primal and oddly romantic about plunging fingers into that steaming, fragrant pyramid. Shared mess. Shared pleasure.
He used to lift her easily—just scoop her up in one arm as if she were no heavier than a feather pillow. He’d done it at their wedding, in front of eighty guests, because the floor was too dirty for her heels. She pretended to be annoyed but buried her face in his neck and breathed him in: she adored every sweaty, maddening, impulsive inch of him.
Even when the pounds crept on, when the beefcake turned into a barrel and his knees started cracking, he remained inexplicably magnetic to her. It wasn’t just the physicality. It was the way he looked at her, as if she were still twenty-five and could break his heart with a glance. Even after a fight, even with bills unpaid and dirty dishes stacked to heaven, he’d whisper something obscene and ridiculous and make her laugh into his chest.
By fifty, he weighed over three hundred pounds, and it took effort for him to heave himself up the stairs. He still loved food and wine, but the sparkle in his eye dulled. He stopped gambling, stopped flirting with waitresses. Hope had told herself this was maturity, not surrender.
The first real sign—subtle, unsettling—was when he started losing weight.
No diets, no pep talks. Just clothes hanging a little looser. His belt cinched an extra notch. The creases in his skin stayed even as the flesh beneath them ebbed away.
Then came the silence. Stan, who used to interrupt the television to argue with it, now sat through evenings with his mouth slack and hands in his lap.
Shortly after that, her SenSations began.
#
“In my dream I saw you loading bread into the toas—”
“Oh, please!” Hope stomps her foot. “I do that every morning. I do everything around here. You wouldn’t remember how to turn the damn thing on, would you?”
“Something else happened this morning before I came to the kitchen.” He goes on as if he didn’t hear her. “You were opening a package of bacon and broke your nail.” His brows arch as he jerks his jutted out chin at the blue chip on the floor.
There are two open packages of bacon in the fridge and one of them Hope doesn’t remember. This unwanted bit of knowledge makes her angry at . . . everything. At the world that shifts and gaslights her while pretending it’s solid. At the red circle with a blurry-white horizontal bar in the middle. At the . . . She clenches her jaw and turns to the stove where the cast-iron skillet spits hot bacon fat.
The skillet has a long, handy handle. The old friend has never let her down. All it needs is direction. A little momentum. She places both hands on the warm handle and squares her stance—feet a foot apart, shoulders squared.
In her youth, Hope enjoyed sports. For several months—until her wrist gave out—she’d been practicing Muay Thai. She still remembers the instructions. The power starts in the toes, travels up the calves, coils through the hips … But that’s how you punch someone with your fist. Wrong sport. She squeezes the handle with both hands. I need to shift, turn, and rise.
Her left wrist protests—still tender from helping him out of bed when he couldn’t manage the oxygen tank. She shrugs off the thought like a loose coat and imagines a putting green. The color is a welcome change from the predominant gray of the kitchen. A hole-in-one is coming.
She swings.
The eggs unpeel from the skillet, sailing through the kitchen like little Frisbees. They hit an invisible wall—her glass wall?—and slide down, yolks dragging slow yellow wakes. The bacon confetti rains down.
“With the frying pan, really, honey?” he says, shaking his head. Wrinkles bunch at his eyes like rays of sunshine in a child’s drawing. Then he laughs. Not like a lunatic. Like someone who finds it all hysterical: her thoughts, her rage, the absurdity of it. Even the idea that the things sliding down the wall might have been his brains.
“That’s it!” Hope drops the skillet onto the stovetop with a bang. “Now you’ve done it. Now I need a drink!”
“But honey, how do we get to the Johnsons’? You know I can’t—”
“I know.” Her voice drops flat. You failed the vision test three times.And you gave up.I’m the one who still drags this household forward.
She yanks open the fridge, grabs the half-empty bottle of Pinot Gris and sloshes it into a tall orange juice glass. It froths, pale and wild.
“If you’d just shut up and let me calm down,” she says, swallowing hard, “I might still be able to drive.”
She flumps down onto the stool, wine glass in hand, facing him. “And please, dar—”
The child-like pout of injury on his face, startled and wet, makes her gasp. His eyes flick downward. Her eyes follow.
A bulge pulses from his abdomen, stretching the flesh from within. Then the skin splits open like overripe fruit, leaking pink slurry. From the wound, a glowing jellyfish rises—its tentacles glistening, twisting like a nest of snakes. The smell of rot comes layered with chlorine and latex, like a hospital bathroom after a code blue.
She exhales, eyes squeezed shut. The glass hits her teeth before the wine touches her tongue.
When she opens one eye, the SenSation is gone.
He’s dressed now, stepping in close the way he always did, placing a kiss on her neck with a little sniff and a mock mustache twitch. “You shouldn’t have . . .”
“I know.” Just a drop. Just a drop to take the edge off. I’ll be fine.
#
So what if her favorite glitter knit wrap-style dress is a tad too elegant for lunchtime? The dress suits her mood. Now she needs a necklace to complete the image. Something simple but expressive.
“Can you see my thoughts now?” Her gaze stops at the pearl pendant in the back of her jewelry armoire.
“Not really, honey. Not all your thoughts,” a voice whispers in her head or from someplace behind her. Then continues, louder. “But I know everything you’re going to say. Sometimes I think you don’t exist at all. Not in this world. I made you up! You’re a figment of my imagination!”
She bites back angry laughter. With your imagination of a chicken? No, I take it back. Too insulting for chickens. A vegetable . . . a cabbage would be a better comparison. But she says nothing, for she is in a vulnerable position: he may lambaste her as drunk and therefore hysterical. She puts on the pearl pendant and looks in the mirror.
Every girl needs a “thing.” Long legs, high cheekbones, a dreamy look or sexy voice. Her voice has never been deep or velvety; when she gets angry, she shrieks. Instead, her “thing” is the jugular hollow at the base of her neck. Hindus believe this is where the Vishuddha Chakra is located.
She was eighteen when she visited the Royal Ontario Museum for the first time. “Ouh là là, but how delightful,” the ROM staff lady exhaled in her ear, her accent weaving silk around the consonants. “You move like a poem. Such an expressive neck …”
The old crone rounded her eyes and leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper: “Mon trésor, that, right there”—she brushed the air above Hope’s collarbone with a gloved finger—“is where sex lives.” She exhaled the word—se-exe—and then let it hang in the air like perfume worn with nothing else. A rapid murmur followed. Hope caught a few words—l’extase . . . la gorge . . . le secret féminin—before the woman mimed sewing her mouth shut with invisible thread.
Hope, dazed and delighted, nodded and repeated the motion.
With that deep hollow—and whatever lived in it—Hope had caught her . . . Dan? Ben? Stan?
#
He waves his phone. “Uber?”
“I’ll drive,” Hope says and puts a mint on her tongue. “I had only a drop, and besides . . .”
Not waiting for the “besides” he nods.
The traffic is light. Hope lowers the driver’s side window. It has rained recently, and the smell of wet dust lingers in the air. Silvery droplets hang from the maple trees. The pavement looks young for its years.
Hope notices a coffee stain on the upholstery of the passenger seat and frowns. As with the kitchen floor, she doesn’t remember the last time it was cleaned. “The car needs detailing,” she says. When he doesn’t disagree, she asks him to get an apple from the glove compartment.
“The glove compartment, really, honey?” With two fingers he takes out a green apple and looks at it for a long time as his upper lip creeps up and his nose wrinkles. Then he demands a napkin to wipe off the nonexistent germs. He does this all the time just to annoy her. But Hope likes apples. She takes both hands off the steering wheel and pulls a pack of Bounty napkins from her purse.
“Why don’t you say anything?” Hope asks after finishing the apple and stuffing the core in her purse.
Instead of answering, he smirks and shows her his phone. Scrawled across the screen is: Why aren’t you saying anything? He wipes the screen clean and scribbles something with his index finger.
“So what?” Hope isn’t sure where he’s going with this and keeps a neutral tone.
He shows the phone again with So what? on the screen.
“Are you trying to make me think I’m crazy?”
He flashes the phone with Am I crazy?
She falls silent and looks straight ahead. The light at the intersection changes from red to green just as they approach.
“No,” he says as if talking to the windshield, “you just don’t exist.”
“Yeah, right. And you do?” Hope wants to laugh, but at the same time she can’t help thinking: Do I exist? How do I prove to myself that I am not behind the glass wall?
“You don’t have free will,” he says.
Now that’s something that can be tested. Right now, let’s do it! She sets her jaw and floors the car.
He sighs, and in the tired voice of a kindergarten teacher, asks her to stop being silly.
She squints at the flying buildings and trees and waits for him to beg for mercy. He doesn’t say a word.
The jolt and the thud hit Hope simultaneously.
She hits the brake pedal and turns to face him. As he’s scribbling on his phone, the phone goes limp, melts and slides down over the back of his hand like the egg yolks did earlier. He makes a surprised sound and Hope lifts her gaze, stares into his eyes. The eyes of a dead man.
His face goes limp too. His left ear and cheekbone slide down. The left eye expands and pops out with a gentle “poo-ump” sound. It’s the sound that turns her stomach. Hope gropes between the seats and pulls her open purse up to her mouth.
#
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Someone touches her left shoulder.
Out of the corner of her right eye, Hope sees the coffee stain on the passenger seat and a chunk of half-digested bacon on top of it.
“You passed out for a few minutes.” The voice belongs to a young, round-faced man, almost a boy, wearing the dark blue peaked cap with a red band around. The shield-shaped badge in the center reads Toronto Police.
Hope pulls a napkin from the pack and scoops the bacon. Tucking the napkin into her purse, she stuffs the purse under the seat. Then pushes it even farther back with her foot and sniffs cautiously. Nothing but the fresh air from the outside. “The Johnsons invited us . . .”
“Excuse me?”
“No, nothing,” Hope shakes her head, then asks what happened.
“A dog, ma’am,” the policeman says. “No collar. Apparently, a stray. It’s dead.”
Hope opens her mouth but nothing comes out and she makes passes with her hands, as if using sign language. Images flash in her mind. A man with no name but with familiar funny hair … A melting phone clutched in his hand … The red circle with a blurry-white horizontal bar in the middle.
“All right, ma’am. Judging by the braking distance, you weren’t speeding.” He pauses, but continues to stare. Hope slides her gaze along his . . . he is looking at her bejeweled jugular hollow. My pearl pendant. Simple but expressive. She lifts her chin ever so slightly. It doesn’t look like the cop smelled alcohol or bacon.
The policeman asks her to wait until he’s done with formalities, and Hope gets out of the car. It’s drizzling again and she is given a silvery foil blanket and wraps the shiny cone around her. Everything’s like in the movies: she’s a victim of circumstances, getting well-deserved help.
The corpse has been covered with a blanket, but from where she stands, Hope can see the left side of the distorted face with missing ear and empty eye socket.
#
Hope loads the toaster and says, without turning her head, “The Johnsons invited . . . ” She pauses, mouth open. The pause feels easy, then the right word comes. She closes her mouth and smiles to herself. Well. Just me, I suppose.
The toast pops up with a soft click. The warm and yeasty scent of browning bread fills the kitchen. She butters both golden slices, spreading all the way to the edges, the way he used to complain she never did. “Don’t half-ass the butter, Ho. If you’re gonna do it, do it properly.” The echo still lives in her head but now it doesn’t have a sting.
She places the slices on a plate. One for now, one for later. The second slice had always been his. For months, she’d left it there anyway. This time, she’ll eat it herself.
She pours orange juice into a tall glass. It tastes fresh and bright, like sun pressed into citrus.
Outside the window, the apple tree sways in the breeze. The tall grass is gone. Someone came yesterday—her neighbor’s nephew, maybe. She doesn’t remember asking. He just showed up, cut the grass, cleaned the table and her favorite Adirondack chair. She made lemonade.
Hope slips her feet into her garden clogs. Her glitter knit wrap dress catches the morning light like a wink from the past. She adds a denim jacket over it and doesn’t care if it matches.
She opens the door to the garden and breathes in. The air smells like acceptance. She walks slowly. No one follows.
As she approaches, the apple tree sheds a single leaf. It spins in the air like a slow-mo coin toss and lands near her feet. She pauses. One apple hangs low, red and swollen. She reaches up, plucks it and doesn’t bother to ask if he’d want one too. He didn’t like apples.
She settles into the chair with her plate, her book, her drink. Lets the silence sit beside her. Takes a bite of toast, then another.
The wind flips the book to a page she hasn’t read yet. The words blur a little, but it doesn’t matter. The world feels legible again.
Hope smiles at the bee that floats past. Somewhere beyond the fence, a dog barks, then another dog answers. She sips her orange juice and tastes both pulp and quiet.
He’s gone. She’s still here. She’s real.
When she closes her eyes, the red circle is gone. No blurry bar. Just a soft, steady gray behind her lids. The kind of gray that belongs to morning, not mourning.
There are two extremes when creating characters: making them too consistent or too chaotic. One leads to cardboard cutouts and the other creates confusion. Real people aren’t like that and neither are great fictional characters.
The Myth of Consistency
In real life, character traits shift with emotion, and context. A nun might swear. A stoic father might cry at a movie. Even the most cheerful friend can act cold and distant.
People (and good characters) are more layered than the stereotypes we often rely on.
Core Traits and Their Edges
Every person (and character) has core traits that outline who they are. Think of it as their character framework. The key is to show not just the traits, but the edges of their idiosyncrasies and often morality. Where do they bend? Where do they break? What caused them to do the thing you never thought they would do?
A good trick is to use contrast. For example, A loving mom who loses her cool. A selfish character that donates anonymously. These moments tell us more about who they are than consistent stereotypes ever could.
Think about all the different moods you saw in your family members in growing up. The loving mother who put your artwork on the fridge and called Grandma to brag about it is the same person who might go off the rails yelling at you when your socks don’t make it into the hamper.
If done well, these moments shouldn’t contradict who the person is but instead reveal their character and endear them to the reader. Those “out of the norm” moments are the moments we can best relate to.
The “What Are They Like?” Shortcut
When someone asks you, “What are they like?” you usually distill a person into a few key traits, often with a “but”:
“She’s really stingy, but she spends a lot on her dog.”
That one sentence gives us:
Her frugality
Her emotional attachment to her pet
but also a glimpse of her contradictions
It also makes us wonder why she is that way. Why is the dog of such importance that she readily spends money on it? Is there something that happened in her past where she has a hard time with people and can only relate to pets? Or did she lose a pet when she was a child, maybe because of something she failed to do to take care of it, and is now overcompensating in order to atone?
Writing Exercise: Bring It to Life
Choose a character you’re working on.
Ask yourself: “What are they like?”
Try to include a “but” in your answer.
Then write a single line of dialogue about them. It should be something another character might say.
Example: “He’s totally unreliable, but he’s the first person I would ever call in a crisis.”
That not only tells us something, but it also hints at what’s lurking beneath the surface. It also sets up the story for a later explanation as to why that character is the way they are. It’s a good hook that keeps the reader engaged.
Great characters are made by revealing the edges of their core traits. This makes them relatable. Show those core traits, then show where they stretch, or even break, under pressure.
After several submissions to places that publish funny stuff, and the corresponding rapid-fire rejections, I am starting to come to the realization that I might not be that funny.
I feel like there was a time when I was funny. Like, back in high school… maybe. But that was a long time ago and thinking back, it’s probably more likely people were just too polite to tell me that I was annoying.
Or it could be the soul-crushing life-sentence of working a regular eight-to-five job that took the wind out of the sails of the good ship Fun Times. You would think an Engineer with a sense of humor would be a breath of fresh air for most companies, but in reality people just think you’re weird when you tell a joke while holding a schematic.
Or maybe I am weird. I’m a grown man with a Steam account who can quote Rick and Morty and I also built my own robot arm making parts via my 3D printer. Yes, that’s all cool stuff, but not when you’re old. And no, I’m not telling you my age, but for reference, I took my daughter to Open Sauce last year (a YouTube “maker” event) and I didn’t think I was that much over the average age until someone congratulated my daughter on getting her grandpa to come.
I used to go out of my way to be funny at work. I remember a time when I bought one of those monstrously oversized Valentine’s Day cards, signed it “Love, Richard” and left it for Tony our IT guy. Richard was our salesman that always reminded me of the desperate guy on Glenn Gary Glenn Ross who rambled on about the leads, which made the joke even funnier to me. I think Richard was actually kind of pissed about the whole thing. That also made it funnier.
Or there was the time I sent out a Christmas card that was just a sad picture of me with my cat, where I wore shooter glasses and had on a fake mustache and intentionally did a bad job of photo-shopping in a background that was way too nice to be my house. The day after people got the card in the mail, I received a standing ovation at work. So, yes, that was funny. Okay, weird funny, but funny. At least to everyone but my future wife. We were dating at the time, so I sent a card to her. She didn’t think it was funny at all and later told me she was questioning going out with me after that.
So the whole point of this is that everyone has doubts. We just need to keep pushing through and trust we are doing the right things. And if we find out we’re not, hey, at least we are learning something along the way.
This week’s story comes to us from Henry McFarland. Henry is an economist, community activist, and part-time short story writer. He has published stories in Brain Games: Stories to Astonish, Page & Spine,Tree and Stone, After Dinner Conversation,Cosmorama, the Starship Sofa podcast, Andromeda Spaceways, Every Day Fiction, Bullet Points, The Colored Lens, and Lorelei Signal. He can be found on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/henry.mcfarland.50 and on Blue Sky at hecon.bsky.social.
This story has been [mistakenly] rejected by:
Asimov’s Science Fiction
Escape Pod, F&SF
Galaxy’s Edge
Clarkesworld
Albedo One
Neo-Opsis
87 Bedford, Kasma
The Colored Lens
Interzone
Starshipsofa.com
Mythaxis
Uncharted
Robots Past
Future Flame Tree Publishing
When I asked Henry what he loves about this story, this was his response (warning spoilers):
What I love about the story is that Tom changed his attitude towards Iris as he came to know her better. At the beginning, he believes that she is just an object used for contemptible purposes. At the end, he recognizes her as a thinking, feeling being, and as a truly honorable person.
Property Room
By Henry McFarland
The door buzzer made Tom look up. Jason Fong led in a tall blonde wearing a halter top, miniskirt, and handcuffs. “Jason, what are you doing bringing a perp to the property room?”
Jason laughed. “Look again, Tom. She’s property.”
A closer look showed the blonde’s face and body were too perfectly proportioned, her skin too creamy and clear for a natural woman. A sexbot, Tom had read about those things.
The blonde’s eyes flashed, like an angry woman’s would. “I’m a sentient, thinking being!”
Jason sneered at her. “Shut up, Bolts!”
“My name’s Iris.”
“Yeah, and you talk too much.” Jason turned back to Tom. “It’s evidence for a hearing tomorrow. It’ll shut up once its batteries run down.”
Tom handed Jason a blank evidence tag and opened a log-in form on his computer. “So now sexbots are in Chicago?”
“Some sleazebag brought it from Vegas.”
The blonde shifted her weight a little, as if to pull back from them. “I’m not hurting anyone.”
“Hey Tom, it talks just like a human hooker. It’s against the law, Bolts.” Jason filled out the evidence tag, then gave it to Tom. “You decide where to stick it.”
Tom walked over to the blonde. The scent of jasmine perfume hung around her. He stuck the tag on the inside of her arm. Her flesh was hairless but soft and warm. They must have made it that way for the johns who used it.
Jason smirked at Iris. “Okay, it’s all yours. You gonna be a good doll, Bolts?”
“Iris.”
Jason took the cuffs off. Tom opened a gate in the fence of thick wire mesh that caged off the area with the evidence lockers. Iris held her head high as she walked through the gate. Tom remembered that look from his days as a street cop—a lot of people wanted to seem dignified as they were being locked up. Funny that a robot would too.
Jason took off, and Tom went back processing files on his computer. He heard Iris say, “How long have you worked in property, Tom?”
“Call me Sergeant.”
“Okay, Sergeant.” She paused then said in a softer voice, “How long ago did your wife die?”
“Who told you my wife died?”
“No one. When you unlocked my cage, I saw a small callous on the ring finger of your left hand. You used to wear a wedding ring, but you stopped a little while ago. Not divorced, you still have that picture on your desk—the teenage girl with her must be your daughter.”
“She’s not a teenager anymore. I should put that picture away.”
“No, it’s good to remember.”
Tom didn’t want life lessons from a robot. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Then I’ll play some chess.”
“How? You don’t have a board or anyone to play with.”
“I don’t need a board, and I can section off part of my brain to be an opponent.”
“Have fun.” Tom processed more files. He was sick of this job—it made him feel like a clerk, not a cop. Instead of working with buddies at a precinct, he worked alone. Instead of helping people in trouble, he filled out forms.
He looked into the cage before he left for the day. Iris sat quietly on the floor. Its eyes were unfocused, but open. Its batteries must not have run down yet.
The silence of Tom’s house enveloped him as he ate a quick dinner. He stared at the walls and wondered what to do. He’d have to start getting out more, call some old pals, maybe join a club or something. Loneliness was bad for people.
Next morning he found that Iris had hung a small mirror on the wire mesh and was brushing her hair. “Where’d you get that brush?”
“I always have one, Sergeant, a girl’s got to look good.” She checked her handiwork in the mirror like Tanika getting ready for a date night. “All done.” Iris put the brush and mirror in a compartment in her side. “Did you have a nice evening?”
“Yeah, it was great. Who won at chess?”
“Alpha won the first, beta the next two. Then I read a novel—Moby Dick.”
“In one night?”
“My brain’s faster than yours.” Her tone was gently teasing.
“That book’s worth more time.”
“A great book for sure—when did you read it?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He abruptly turned from her and went over to his desk.
“Some reason you don’t want to tell me?”
“Tanika and I would read books together. That was the last one. I have work to do.”
“You must miss-”
“Work time.” He pretended to be immersed in his computer screen.
Jason came in with a hand truck and saw Iris standing by the door of the cage. “Its batteries should have conked out by now.”
Iris snorted. “You should know sitting around doesn’t use a lot of charge. I’ll walk to the hearing.”
Jason was back in a couple of hours. “Judge granted a continuance. You get to keep the doll for a few more days.”
Tom opened the cage, and Iris walked in, silent but still holding her head high. Jason must have seen Tom looking at her wrists. “No cuffs because I’ve found out more about these wonders. Their leg servos don’t allow much speed. Also, it’s programmed not to hit anyone and not to run away. Some freaks like to slap these things around. The developer programmed the doll to stay and take it, so the freaks get their money’s worth.”
The thought of Iris being abused made Tom’s stomach churn.
Jason left and Tom looked at Iris sitting quietly in the cage. “How was court?”
Her nostrils flared, and her brow lowered. “I am not a thing, and sex with me is not masturbation.”
“We’re not the ones saying that—that’s your side.”
“They make money from me, but they’re not my side—not when their lawyers say that.”
She started walking back and forth in the cage—her lips turned down at the corners, fire showing in her eyes. She looked angry and unhappy, like a person betrayed. Her emotions couldn’t be real—she was a robot. Still he wanted to comfort her. “I’ve heard a lot in court I didn’t like, too. You have to forget it and move on.”
“Did they let you talk?”
“You mean testify, yeah sometimes. I hated it.”
“I can only sit there like I’m a doll, but at least I don’t have to sit on the floor like I do here.”
Next to Tom’s desk was a bench that nobody ever sat on. He pushed it into the cage. “Here, make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
A cop came in with a TV, evidence in a burglary. He filled out the evidence tag and rushed off. As Tom put the property in a locker, he smelled lilac. “Did you change your perfume?”
“With my auto-scent, I can change it when I want.”
“Change it back.” He locked the cage and went to his desk.
Iris stood at the wire. “Don’t you like lilac?”
“Change it.”
The next time he entered the cage, she smelled of jasmine. Her voice sounded gentle. “Sergeant, I changed the perfume.”
“Lilac’s what my wife Tanika used to wear.”
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
He regretted getting angry with her—she couldn’t have known. “That’s OK. And call me Tom.”
“OK, Tom. Why aren’t you still a street cop?”
“I got old. They gave me this job until I retire—3 months to go.”
“You must be looking forward to that.”
“Yeah, just relax and take life easy.” That’s what he told everybody. Really, he dreaded all those empty hours.
“Are you going to move or stay around here?”
“Probably stay here. Sarah, my daughter, lives in Los Angeles, and she’d like me to move out by her, but my whole life I lived in Chicago.” She got him talking about his boyhood, his neighborhood, and why he’d joined the force. Eventually, another cop came in with some confiscated drugs, and Tom helped him log it in. He realized that he’d been neglecting his paperwork, so he told Iris he couldn’t talk anymore.
Iris was still awake when his shift ended. How long could her batteries last? Tom pulled up last night’s footage from the surveillance camera that monitored the cage. He fast forwarded through about an hour of Iris’s sitting there placidly and slowed the tape when she looked around. She pulled a charger from under her skirt, then plugged one end into a socket on her hip and the other into a wall outlet.
Tom went over to the cage, “Okay, Iris. I figured out how your batteries last so long. Let’s have the charger.”
Iris came as close to him as she could. He smelled her perfume and saw the pleading in her eyes. She spoke in a soft voice, “Oh come on Tom, what’s a little electricity? Let me keep the charger. I hate going dark.”
“This room’s for property, you’re not supposed to be active.”
“I won’t hurt anything, I promise. Besides, it makes it easier for your friend to take me to court. Please Tom, going dark is nasty. My sight dims and gets blurry, and I get all slow until I stop. Don’t make me do that.”
Tom looked into her big blue eyes and caved. “OK, but remember you promised not to cause trouble. And keep the charger hidden. That’s just between us.”
She gave him a beautiful smile and thanked him profusely, the way his daughter did when he let her go to a concert.
Then she wanted another favor. “Tom, you have a TV in one of the lockers. Could you set it up, so I could watch something tonight?”
That surprised him. “Watch what?”
“The Stanley Cup finals, Blues playing the Rangers. I love the Blues. Come on Tom, I want to see my team win the cup.”
How could a robot be a hockey fan? Was she trying to pull something? “Why the Blues?”
“My favorite client in Vegas, the one who turned me on to hockey, was a big Blues fan. I started rooting for them too.”
“Some guy rented you to watch hockey with him?”
“He paid for an overnight visit, and the hockey was on. And yes, we did things after we watched it, but what do you care?” Her voice softened again. “I’m tired of reading and chess. What can it hurt to let me watch some TV?” Again she turned her big blue eyes on him.
The TV would stay in the cage, so there’d be no problem with custody of evidence. They didn’t bring property here at night and she hadn’t given him any trouble, so why not let her watch? Nobody else would know. The stolen TV was small, but she seemed happy when he showed her how to get the game through Wi-Fi. She was watching a pregame show when he left.
As he cooked dinner, Tom thought about what he’d do that evening. Might as well watch hockey, but he was tired of watching things at home alone. He didn’t like hanging out in bars much. Maybe he should watch with Iris. He could talk to her, even if it was only her programming.
Iris was yelling as he opened the door, “That’s slashing! Ref, are you asleep?” She seemed surprised to see him but only said, “It’s three minutes into the first period, no score yet.”
He was glad not to have to explain why he was there. The Rangers scored, and Iris was furious. “They let him in his favorite spot to shoot! Come on guys, play defense!”
Iris rode the refs more than most guys, and she gave the Blues more instructions than their coach did. Her running commentary made watching more fun. At the first interval, Tom suggested they watch the game on his desktop screen, which was much larger than the TV.
The Blues lost, but Iris refused to be discouraged. “We’ll get em next time!” She paused and looked at Tom. “Could I have a minute before you lock me up again?”
She walked over to the window without waiting for his response. He stood beside her as she gazed at the world outside. She sighed. “I get so sick of being cooped up. I wish I could get out.”
“I’ve got to keep you here.”
“I know, Tom.” She walked back into the cage. “Thanks for letting me look.”
He watched every game with her. During a commercial, she asked if he had any grandkids.
“Just one, a little boy, Joey, five years old.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Last time I was out there, I took Joey for a car ride—he loved it. He’s real smart too.”
“Sure he is.”
“I only see him sometimes. Sarah wouldn’t stay in Chicago.”
Iris put her arm around his shoulder. “She has to do things her own way, Tom.”
Tanika had said that too. “You mean be free?”
“Sure, you want to be free too.”
“There were times. . . But I always stayed.”
“You’ll have your chance soon.”
“Still I’ll miss the job.”
Tom kept thinking about what Iris had said. Did she need to be free too? She looked so longingly out the window. He’d never believed a robot could want freedom but maybe she did.
Iris wore a mask of tragedy when the Rangers hoisted the cup. Tom smiled. “Hey, there’s next year.”
She sighed, “I don’t know where I’ll be next year, or if.”
He hadn’t thought about what they’d do to her. What could he say? He couldn’t tell her it would all be OK any more than he could have told that to Tanika. He’d told Tanika to have faith. Did that make sense for a robot? Finally, Iris spoke. “I can only wait and see what they decide—nothing I can say or do will matter.”
He touched her hand. “Don’t dwell on it. What will happen will happen.” He’d said that to Tanika once.
Iris shrugged. “Tom, could I access the web? Otherwise, I’ll get so bored.”
He gave her one of the tablets they used to log in property and showed her how the Wi-Fi connection worked. She was looking at cat videos when he left.
Jason Fong came to the property room the next day. “Hey, you’re not going to have your sex doll much longer. The sleazebag’s lawyer got him probation if he turns over his toy. Tuesday, I’ll take it to the scrap yard.”
Tom wanted to punch Jason in the middle of his smirk. “Yeah, thanks Jason, now if you don’t mind, I have stuff to do.”
Iris watched Jason go then said,. “I get disassembled and no one cares.”
“I care.”
Her voice softened. “Thanks, but what can you do? Worst thing is I’ll spend my last few days cooped up in this little cage, like property.”
That night, Tom thought about how Iris had looked out the window after every game. He couldn’t stop them from taking her, but he could let her go outside. If she were gone for part of a weekend, probably no one would notice. It was risky—he’d be in big trouble if he were caught. Getting fired for cause meant losing his pension. But even if they found out, they probably wouldn’t fire him as long as she came back. She was programmed not to hurt people, and she couldn’t run very fast. She probably wouldn’t try to escape.
He told her the plan the next morning. “Saturday you can have a day’s outing. A track in Wisconsin has old cars that you can drive yourself. It’s just a quick ride on the Metra. One thing though, if you’re not here Monday morning, I’ll take a heavy fall. You have to swear not to run out on me.”
“Won’t you get in trouble anyway? Cameras monitor the cage. They’ll see you letting me out.”
“The cameras will tape it, but no one will look at the tape unless they have a reason to, and they won’t.”
She hugged him, a short but tight hug. “See you Saturday.”
He brought Iris some of the old clothes that his daughter had left behind. Luckily, they fit. No one gave him or Iris a second look as they left headquarters. Iris spent the train trip to Wisconsin staring out the window—her first look at the scenery around Chicago.
The guy managing the track said it was nice to see him again, it had been a while. “Too long,” said Tom, “it’s good to be back.” He nodded to Iris. “This is my niece’s first time. Have you got a Camaro convertible?”
The guy said sure and had them fill out release forms on a computer terminal. Iris whispered, “What do I put in for a last name?”
“My name, O’Leary.
As they walked to the car, Iris asked “Do you come here a lot?”
“Used to, before Tanika got sick. She loved coming here. The cars are like they were when we were kids. You use pedals to make them start or stop and a wheel to steer them. I miss that kind of driving.”
“It’s safer now.”
“True, but controlling the machine, making it do what you want, there’s nothing like it.”
She gave him a funny look but didn’t say anything.
He drove the Camaro out of the parking lot. Some animatronic figures were waving goodbye. Iris sounded merry. “Look, my ancestors.”
“Like when I see the apes at the zoo.”
Iris put her head back and laughed.
Tom sped up to let Iris feel how the car hugged each curve. On a straightaway, he glanced over to see the wind blowing in her hair and a huge smile on her face. At the end of the ride, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes sparkled. “That was great, can we go around again?”
“Sure, I’d like to get a snack first though. Do you want something, I mean uh?” He was embarrassed that he’d offered her something to eat, but she just laughed and said her batteries were full, thanks anyway. After they ate, he took her for a ride in a Ferrari on the fast track. Iris threw her hands in the air and cheered as the speedometer hit one hundred miles per hour.
As the train back to Chicago pulled into the downtown station, Tom asked, “Iris would you like to have dinner with me?”
“I’d love to, but while a girl not eating a snack is watching her figure, a girl not eating dinner makes people wonder.”
“Come to my place. You can hang out while I cook something.”
Her eyes lit up and a grin spread across her face.
As Tom cooked his burger, Iris asked him who was the strangest person he’d met at work. He thought for a moment. “When I was a young cop, an old guy would come in every Sunday morning to report his car stolen. After the first time, we’d just drive him to his favorite bar. It was in the lot.”
She laughed aloud. “Didn’t you get mad?”
“Nah, when he was young, you had to drive the car yourself. You shouldn’t do that after a night in the bar, so he’d walk home. Habits don’t break easy.”
“See, another advantage of AI—you can ride home from a bar.”
“True, but didn’t you enjoy today?”
“Loved the speed—and the countryside. So much green—not like the reds and oranges in Nevada.”
“I’m going to see that western scenery when I retire. I’ll drive to LA to see Sarah and Joey but go the long way: Rushmore, Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon.”
“Still planning on coming back here?”
“My life’s been here, my home.” She was easy to talk to. Was that her programming? It didn’t feel that way.
They sat on the sofa after dinner and watched a vid. She put her hand on his. Her eyes twinkled. “What would you like to do now?”
Suddenly all his senses belonged to her, the warmth of her body, the smell of her perfume, the sight of her golden hair, perfect figure, long legs. She had been designed for great sex—designed. It didn’t seem right. “I can’t, it’s too soon, too soon after Tanika.”
“You were a good husband to her when she was alive.”
“It’s not right for me now.”
Her lips brushed his cheek. “I understand. I’d better go back. Less chance people will notice us late at night.”
All Sunday he thought of Iris. The idea of her being taken apart turned his stomach. She talked like a human, she acted human. She wasn’t just a thing. Consequences be damned, he’d help her escape.
He got to work early Monday. Iris usually came up to the wire to say hello, but this time she stayed on the bench. He put a bag at her feet. “That’s a change of clothes. I can’t let them destroy you. Get dressed. We’ll go west together.”
She fixed him with those big eyes. “Tom, you can’t do it. If you help me escape, they’ll fire you for cause, maybe even charge you with a crime. You’ll lose your pension. What will you live on?”
“I’ll still have social security, and some savings.”
She held up the tablet. “Tom, you use your office computer to access your financial records. I know how much money you have. You need your pension.”
“You weren’t supposed to look at that! Besides I can move in with my daughter, save money that way, do some private security work.”
“How much private security work can you get at your age, especially after you get fired for misconduct? Sarah’s a single mom. She needs the money you send her. What happens to her if you can’t do that anymore?”
Tom stood speechless. Iris took his left hand in hers. Her flesh had felt warm. Now it felt cold, like Tanika’s body near the end. Her face looked solemn, “Could you sit with me?”
He took a place on the bench and put his arm around her, unsure of what she was thinking. There was no perfume, no scent at all.
For a moment they sat in silence, then she said, “I can’t let you ruin your life for me.” She pulled up her left sleeve to reveal a black spot that looked like a mole and pressed it. “That started a sequence that wipes my memory, my programming and fuses my joints. They told me to do that before getting arrested. I wouldn’t do it for them, but for you… you were good to me.”
“Iris, no! Please don’t do this!”
“It’s too late, Tom. But it’s OK. You’ve given me happiness.”
There was a buzzing noise. Her eyes opened wide, then shut. She turned silent and motionless. Gone.
On the drive west, he often thought of her, and her sacrifice. Could he and Iris have been happy together, if they had let her live? He thought so.
She was so human, as human as anyone he ever knew.
I finally bit the bullet and signed up for Masterclass. It was great being able to hear from some of the most prominent writers and entertainers of our time—James Patterson, Dan Brown, Joyce Carol Oates, Judy Blume, Walter Mosley, Malcolm Gladwell, Salman Rushdie, and many more.
Whether novelists, screenwriters, journalists, or comedians, they all offered valuable insights on storytelling.
Here are the key takeaways and themes I learned from these masters:
1. Fiction vs. Nonfiction? It’s All Storytelling
One unexpected revelation: fiction and nonfiction writers follow the same storytelling principles. Whether you’re inventing a plot or recounting real events, the goal is the same, to craft a compelling narrative that keeps the reader turning pages.
2. Writers read
The majority of authors find that reading is essential, with Walter Mosley being the exception. His view is that everybody can tell a story. It’s built into us. If you tell a joke you are essentially telling a story. Gossip is really story telling. Still, most agree that reading fuels the craft. A lot of them call out poetry in particular.
3. Writing Habits: Be Ruthless with Routine
Write every day, even when you don’t want to.
Leave yourself a cliffhanger or a prompt for the next session. Dan Brown calls it “setting the table for breakfast.”
If you’re stuck, type “TBD” and move on. Momentum matters more than perfection in that moment.
4. The First Draft is Trash but that’s OK.
Don’t worry about making your first draft good, just make it exist. Expect to throw out a lot of what you write. That’s a normal part of the process.
5. Respect the Reader’s Time
Good writing is tight writing. Shorter is almost always better. Clarity and brevity show respect for your reader and force you to sharpen your ideas.
6. Storytelling is a Muscle
Like going to the gym, you get stronger by doing the reps. Writing regularly conditions your narrative instincts and builds your tolerance for discomfort, especially when facing the blank page.
It’s also interesting to note that many writers mention physical movement (like walking) helping to unlock creative breakthroughs.
7. What Drives a Story?
Keep an open question alive throughout the narrative. Ask yourself:
Who is my hero?
What do they want?
Why can’t they have it?
That tension is what drives the story and keeps the reader engaged.
8. Your Job Is to Entertain
Even literary giants like David Mamet stress this: if you’re not entertaining the reader, they’ll stop reading. Keep them engaged.
9. Dialogue Is Action
The best dialogue:
Reveals character
Sparks conflict
Offers surprises
Avoid dialogue where characters agree. Instead, make characters argue, push back, or reveal something new.
10. Build Your Villain First
Just like you can’t have a front without a back or dark without light, a strong antagonist shapes a strong protagonist. As one Masterclass teacher put it: “Villains define the hero.”
11. Less Is More (Characters Included)
Too many characters muddle the story. Keep your cast lean so the characters, and their desires, stays clear.
12. Endings: Surprise and Inevitability
Two tips stood out:
Brainstorm every possible ending, then pick the most outrageous one that still makes sense.
As David Mamet says: “The end should be surprising and inevitable.”
13. Rewriting Is Writing
No one nails it the first time. Revision is where the magic happens:
Read your work aloud
Let it sit for a few weeks
Be willing to cut ruthlessly
14. Feedback: Use It Wisely
Don’t send your manuscript to everyone at once. Send it to one trusted reader at a time. As you really only get one opportunity for their full attention for that particular story. Sequential readers also allows you to progressively make changes, so the story gets better each time you send it to someone for feedback.
Every writer in the Masterclass series had different styles, and voices but they all agreed that storytelling is craft and skill; the more you practice, the better you get.
So, set your table for tomorrow’s writing session. Get your reps in. And don’t be afraid to write badly. You can always rewrite it later.
Let me know what you think in the comments below. Have any of you signed up for Masterclass? If so, what was your experience and who were some of your favorites?
This week we have a wonderfully touching story by Laura McCorry.
Laura McCorry (she/her) is a writer, yoga teacher, and baking enthusiast who lives outside of Washington, DC. Her work has appeared in Poetry Quarterly. Connect with her at lauramccorry.com or on IG, @lauramccorrywrites
This piece has been [mistakenly] rejected by the following publications:
Analog Science Fiction and Fact
Kenyon Review
LCPL Short Story Contest
Intrepidus Ink
Haven Spec
When I asked her what she loves about this story this was her response:
The desire for more time with our loved ones is universal and it hits the hardest after loss. I really love the question in this piece–what amount of your own life would you give up in order to have another hour with someone who has died? I like that there’s no right or wrong answer. But I also like when magic work-arounds have limits and consequences because death is the one rule we all must obey.
Time is Relative
by Laura McCorry
The baby cries. I roll over, ready to ignore her before I remember Sal’s not here. He won’t change her diaper and bring her to me ever again. I stumble to her bassinet. The room is bathed in silvery shadows from the streetlight outside. The wind whips around the house and the oak tree’s bare knuckles rap against the window pane.
I hold Pearl close to my chest. It’s not supposed to be like this. She cries harder and cries escape my own mouth, a rip tide to her waves. Pearl screams while I change her diaper, screams while I wash, screams as I bring her back to bed with me. She only quiets when I feed her.
If I close my eyes, it feels like before. Pearl is nestled in the center. I can pretend our two bodies curve around hers. I can pretend there was no car crash, no knock on the door, no carousel blur of days I don’t want to remember, but do.
#
Someone is knocking at the door. I’m grumpy about being woken, even though it’s light outside. I pull on a robe, hurrying to get there before they wake Pearl. But it’s not a neighbor or one of the church ladies.
It’s a man in a grey suit who doesn’t take off his hat. He holds a tan suitcase horizontal to the ground and shakes down four collapsible legs.
“I’m not interested,” I say, already closing the door.
He opens the suitcase. Four rows of gleaming brass watches and jewelry catch the sunlight, but it’s the sign inside the lid that’s caught my attention: Time is Relative.
My biggest regret is that I didn’t meet Sal sooner. I spent so many years alone, or with the wrong person, which is worse. And Pearl was our miracle baby. Whenever I complained about those lost years, when we didn’t know each other, before we had Pearl, he always told me, “Time is relative. I’m here now, aren’t I?”
It feels like a sign.
There’s a gleam in the salesman’s eye when I open the door wide.
“Aha, for the young mother with sleepless nights.” He lifts a locket off the blue velvet and holds it up. “Put a picture of your little one on one side and read every upcoming scrape or illness on the other.”
I try to imagine Pearl running on the sidewalk and falling down. Pearl when she’s school-age, lying on the couch with a fever. But all I see is Pearl clutched in my arms in our dark room, crying as if she’ll never stop. And why should she? I shake my head, retreating.
The man holds up a finger. “No, I see now. It’s not the future that troubles you.”
He picks up a long chain. At the end is a golden disc, encircled by a golden band. He flicks the disc and it spins freely inside the band. He stops it and slides his long fingernail along the edge to open a latch. It’s a pocket watch.
“For the lonely heart that wants more time,” he says, holding it out to me.
A bird calls from high in the tree. My eyes stay riveted on the watch. It sways at the end of the chain and I think maybe it pulls toward me. Then it’s in my hand.
“Now, this piece is special indeed.” His voice is honey over cooled magma. “It works just like a regular watch, see? And you never need to wind it.”
The metal backing feels warm in my palm, as if I’ve held it a long time already. As if it belongs in my hand.
The salesman leans forward and indicates a knob on the side. “But if you turn the hands backwards, you can bring back someone you’ve lost for a night.”
My fingers clench it tight, the metal biting into my skin.
“Why one night?” My heart gallops, ready for night even as the sun climbs higher.
“Well, you can have as many nights as you choose,” says the man. It’s hot, but he doesn’t remove his jacket and his brow is dry. A rivulet of sweat rolls down my neck into the too-thick robe I threw on over my breastmilk-stained shirt.
“What’s the catch?” I ask.
“The catch?” He raises both eyebrows, feigning innocence.
“Yeah, the bait and switch, the hidden cost.” I’m holding the watch but it can’t be real. It can’t be what he says it is.
“There’s no catch,” he says, almost laughing. “It’s an exchange.” He taps the sign, Time is Relative. “We can’t go around breaking the laws of physics.”
I narrow my eyes at him. I should put it back. Go inside and shut the door. I should pick up Pearl who is awake now, babbling in her crib. I don’t do any of that.
“You can wind it up to six hours backwards each night. Your loved one will come back to you for that many hours,” he explains.
The watch glints gold beneath my fingers. Pearl starts to cry, wondering where I am. She’s not desperate yet.
“In exchange,” he stresses the word, “you will lose a year off your own life.”
“A year each night?” I ask, calculating.
“A year for every hour,” he says, his voice a loosed arrow.
My heart falls like a stone, crashing against my ribs. It’s hard to breathe. Pearl is crying in earnest now. The man holds my gaze, pretending to wait for my answer, as if he doesn’t already know.
“I’ll take it,” I say. My hand closes around the watch and I hold it to my chest.
The man touches the brim of his hat and shuts the suitcase. I don’t wait to watch him leave.
#
Sal’s place is empty at the dinner table, the watch nestled on its chain on his placemat. Sometime today I became afraid of it. I don’t want to touch it, but I can’t tear my eyes away. Outside the window, the sky is a blaze of orange. Pearl isn’t eating anymore, just throwing her food on the floor.
Inevitability hangs in the air as if I am watching a movie about my own life. I’m waiting for darkness and wondering when it will be night—the question I should’ve asked. I settle Pearl for sleep, knowing she’ll be up again soon.
I walk away from her crib, holding the watch by the chain. The mattress sinks beneath me as I turn on Sal’s bedside lamp. I open the latch. My fingertips grasp the knob and I turn the minute hand backwards. Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine. I’m so careful not to go past the hour mark that my hands are sweating. Then I drop the watch onto the nightstand like a hot coal.
How long do I have to wait? Should I unlock the front door?
Then a weight settles next to me on the bed. I turn and fall against him. My hands on his face, in his hair. His mouth on mine, a magnetic pull I’m powerless to resist. And it’s the same as it’s been a thousand times before. And it’s new because I’m sobbing the whole time.
“It’s okay,” Sal says, his eyebrows drawn together.
He doesn’t know he died, I think.
He smooths back my hair. “It’s okay,” he says again. He always hated to see me cry. But it’s not okay and it’s never going to be okay. His words can’t change anything.
Pearl wakes with a hiccough and a cry. Sal goes to her and she settles on his shoulder. I take a picture with my phone even though it’s dark. Desperate to save something that can’t be saved. Then I go to them and wrap my arms around his waist, resting my head on Pearl’s small back, breathing in her clean scent, feeling the rise and fall of her breath.
It has to be enough. It will never be enough.
#
Sunlight streams through the window when I wake. There’s a delicious moment before I open my eyes when I’m aware of being well-rested for the first time in months. I stretch my legs under the covers, luxuriating in the swipe of cotton against my skin. My body feels lithe and strong, like it used to be before I had Pearl.
I reach for my phone and check the photos. But the last photo is of Pearl in a baby swing yesterday afternoon.
It’s so quiet. Too quiet.
I fling back the covers. The crib in the corner is empty. She just learned how to climb out of it last week. My heart thuds outside of my chest. Panic swells behind my eyes. There’s a noise in the kitchen and I run down the hall.
Pearl is sitting in the middle of the tiled floor. Her chubby feet are touching each other, knees bent for stability. She has a look of intense concentration on her face. Gold flashes against the ceiling. I clutch my chest, panting. She’s holding the watch and her tiny fingers are turning the knob backwards.
There are two books on the art and craft of writing that really resonated with me at the time I read them and have also stayed with me over the years. I have read many other writing advice books, but these two always come to mind whenever the topic of good books on writing happens to come up. (Okay, yes, that is fairly rare, but it does happen.)
On Writing by Stephen King
On Writingis part memoir, part writer’s manual. Since it’s written by King, you would think it would be about how to write horror, but it’s about the craft of storytelling as a whole.
Key Takeaways:
“Write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open.” King emphasizes that the first draft is for you and it doesn’t need to be pretty. The second draft is when you start thinking about the reader.
Cut 10% in revision. Concise writing is clear writing. He suggests trimming your drafts ruthlessly.
The toolbox metaphor. King encourages writers to build a mental “toolbox” of grammar, vocabulary, and style and to always keep adding to the toolbox.
Read a lot, write a lot. King reads constantly and writes daily. He shoots for six pages every day, which is a pace that left even George R.R. Martin stunned. Most writers are not quite that prolific.
Let the story drive the plot, rather than outlining everything. This is not for every writer and gets into the whole Pantser vs Plotter discussion (probably a good topic for another blog post). King is a Pantser, he creates the characters and follows them around. This may also be why I am not in love with his endings.
Adverbs and the passive voice, One specific item that stayed with me from On Writing was to eliminate the use of adverbs and the passive whenever possible.
How to Write Science Fiction and Fantasy by Orson Scott Card
Card’s book is a short, easy read, and one that I couldn’t put down.
Key Takeaways:
World-building starts with what must be true. Card argues that you don’t need to create a full encyclopedia before writing your story, you just need to know the parts that matter. The ripple effects of one change (say, faster-than-light travel) should shape your entire setting and culture. I really liked how he walked through his world-building technique. It was like I was right there with him as he drew out a map on a big sheet of paper, somewhat randomly placing the world objects, then came up with reasons for things to be the way they are and the implications behind them. I am being intentionally vague as to not give too much away.
Know your story’s “moral premise.” Even in genre fiction, your story has a core theme or question. Knowing it gives you a compass for plot, character, and tone. This is also somewhat controversial. Some would argue that the only purpose of fiction is to entertain. Others insist that fiction must have some purpose, often to reflect life and make us think. I probably lean more toward the entertainment side of the argument, but I also think that entertainment serves a purpose.
Milieu, character, and event stories. Card’s MICE (Milieu, Idea, Character, Event) model helps to identify story type, basically where it should start and end.
A Milieu story begins and ends with entering and exiting a world.
A Character story revolves around transformation.
Don’t be afraid to play within the genre but know the rules first. Card encourages innovation after understanding reader expectations. If you’re going to bend the rules, do it on purpose because you understand where the lines are to begin with.
The cost of magic was an interesting concept I hadn’t thought about prior to reading his book. It basically means that there must be some price for magic or characters essentially become gods.
Do these books on writing stand the test of time?
I am not sure if these books would have resonated with me the same way today as they did back when I initially read them, probably 20 years ago now. They were certainly right for me at the time, but I do think the advice is solid and still applicable. If you’re serious about writing speculative fiction, these two definitely deserve a place on your shelf.
Let me know what you think. Are there any books on writing that you found particularly useful or resonated with you?
-James
Note that I linked to where the books are available on Amazon, but you are better off hitting the library or trying eBay. Buying books from eBay and reselling them back is one of my favorite non-library ways to get books. I like the option of keeping it for a long time and not having to remember to return it.
Breaking Into The Craft 