justLuke
October 7th, 2007, 07:22 PM
It seems to me that I can't really expect people to share their work with me (see my "Student tasked with creating a magazine needs YOU!" thread) without sharing some of my own work.
So without further ado, direct from my dusty old creative writing folder, here's a short story that I wrote called "Tickler". I hope you like it. I had fun writing it. Feedback is always appreciated.
Tickler
“I’m sorry,” said my agent, “they’re dropping you, Tom.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. After all this time, after all the money they had made from me, they were throwing me away like a piece of trash?
“Dropping me? But... why? My stuff sells. My books are all still in print.”
“Right, but the facts speak for themselves: the old reprints are doing fine but your last few novels didn’t perform well in the market.”
“But they were better - the reviews were more positive than they’ve ever been.”
“You know the industry, Tom. It’s not about art, it’s about profit.”
“Quality isn’t worth a damn, right?”
“I’m sorry.”
“So you said. What happens now, John?”
“We keep submitting. You could try adopting a pen name.”
“I’m fine with the name I was born with.”
“Well, that’s up to you. So what are you working on now?”
“A story about a serial killer; a hulking brute with a talent for creeping up on people. His victims only know he’s there when they feel the tickle of his stubble on the back of their neck. Gruesome things happen to them after that, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“Sounds good. How far along are you?”
“I’m finishing up the first draft as we speak.”
“Maybe I can put in a few calls. The editor at Del Ray owes me a few favours. Got a name for it yet?”
“Tickler.”
“Short, snappy, memorable; I like it. Ok, send it over as soon as you can. Speak to you soon.”
“Bye.”
I closed my cell phone with a snap and resumed gazing at the blank page of the newly opened word processor file on my monitor before me. Tickler. What the hell was I thinking? A story about a dainty footed murderer? What an awful idea. I’d no idea what I was going to write, and in truth I knew that I hadn’t had a workable idea for a long time.
I thought back to the beginning of my career; despite the struggle to get published and to build my reputation, it had been easier then. Clumsy with my craft, the words had flowed slowly in agonising fits and bursts but the ideas had gushed forth. My mind had been positively bursting with new ideas. Now, with twelve published novels behind me, the prose flowed more smoothly when I was inspired, but the ideas had dried up. Even so, my last few novels were the best things that I had ever written. I was sure of that, but why didn’t the public agree? Someone once said that most people were stupid. Maybe he was right. I wrote horror but that didn’t mean I was a hack - Poe and Lovecraft proved that. I would not lower myself to writing commercial trash!
“Good for you,” said a voice. “I like a man with principles.”
Startled, I looked around the room, but of course I was alone. So I was imagining voices in my head now? Gees, the stress must be getting to me more than I thought.
“Don’t worry,” said the voice, “this isn’t all in your head. Well, ok – yes, technically it is all in your head, but it’s also real.”
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Don’t talk out loud. People will think you’re crazy.”
And they’d probably be right, but I recast my question as a thought.
“A hot place,” he said. “I’m the guy with the pointy black beard and the snappy red suit.”
The devil?
“None other. Look, there are rules about where I can and can’t go. For instance, I can’t make house calls. I’d love to drop in for brunch, but it’s against the rules, so we’ll have to make do with this. Think of it as a spiritual telephone conversation.”
What do you want?
“For a horror writer, you’re not too sharp are you? I want to strike a bargain with you; I want you to make a traditional clichéd deal with me.”
You want my soul?
“No, I want your autograph.”
Really?
“No.”
And what will you give me in return?
“I’ll give you what your heart desires, obviously.”
“Do I get three wishes?”
“What did I say about talking aloud?”
Sorry. Well do I?
“Don’t push it, sunshine. I’m the Lord of Darkness, not a genie.”
But I don’t think I want to go to hell.
“Right, because you’re having so much fun where you are?”
Well, no. It looks like I’m going to have to compromise my artistic integrity for money, and I’ll hate myself for it. I’m facing a premature burial in the slush pile. I’m a has-been at forty three. It’s unbearable! And I can’t believe I just told you that.
“Don’t worry, it often happens with voice to mind communication - you’ve got a lot of subconscious thoughts and feelings rattling around that want to have their say. Look, friend, what if I can show you a way out?”
Go on.
“Your novels are getting better, but they’re also losing their mass appeal, right?”
Right.
“Well what if I boost your talent to the next level, so to speak. What if you could write a novel too wonderful to be ignored?”
I get to write a great novel in exchange for eternal damnation?
“Not just a great novel, the best novel. A timeless work of literature!”
I don’t know. I’m pretty happy with the way I write.
“A novel so wonderful that it can’t help but be admired and profitable!”
Admired and profitable?
“Is there an echo in here? Don’t play deaf; you’re listening to me with your head, remember, not your ears.”
And when do you get my soul?
“After I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain, you fulfil yours.”
And what will you do with it?
“Nothing too grievous, I promise. I’m too sensitive for violence – I leave that to others.”
Can you give me a sign that this is real? Because I still think that I’m going crazy.
“Take a look at your monitor.”
As I watched, the screen filled with the words of the devil’s contract.
Ok, now that’s weird. Weird but persuasive.
“Just move the cursor to the bottom of the document and type your name in the space provided.”
You don’t want me to print it off and sign my name in blood?
“No, that’s unhygienic. Besides, what good would a hard copy be to me? The post office doesn’t deliver mail to my address, and the contract would only get singed by the flames if they did.”
That actually makes a strange kind of sense. So, anyway, hypothetically speaking, if I did sign the contract, how would I return it to you?
“You can email it to me at LordofFlies@inferno.com.”
How modern. Well, you’re wasting your time with me because there’s no way that I’m going to sign my soul over to you.
“Luckily for me, you fingers pay more attention to your desires than your mind does.”
What do you mean?
“Take a look at your keyboard.”
I looked down. My fingers were merrily tapping out my name.
Well, I’m not going to email this to you.
I copied and pasted the text into an email, completed the sender details, and clicked on the “send mail” button.
“Good man.”
That’s not fair. I didn’t mean to do that!
“Part of you did. I speak to the flaw in Man, and that’s the part that signed and sent the contract.”
Oh. So what happens now?
“It seems to me that you’ve got a novel to write.”
I don’t know what to write about.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something now that you’ve found your muse. I’ll be in touch.”
**
“Tom, my god, the book’s fantastic!” said my agent.
I couldn’t help grinning down the phone at him. “So you like it then?”
“Like it? I love it! I’ll admit it now: Tickler sounded rather lame when you told me about it, but it really works. No, ‘works’ doesn’t do it justice. It’s profound! It’s perceptive! It’s startling! I’ve never read anything quite like it before. It’s, it’s...”
“Art?”
“Yes, Tom, that’s exactly what it is – it’s a work of art!”
“But didn’t you say that art doesn’t sell?”
“Forget what I said - I’ve been fielding calls from New York and London all weekend.”
“That’s great!”
“Yeah, I’m expecting the offers to come in any day now. Ah! HarperCollins are on the other line - call you back later, ok? With good news, I think!”
“Ok.”
I closed my cell phone and leaned back with a smile. The words had flowed. The ideas had flowed. The pages sparkled. I didn’t know how much of it was down to me or to my muse, but it felt like my work; it had been typed by my fingers, it had come from my imagination. Tickler, the story of a stealthy, brutish murderer; what a wonderful idea!
“It seems to me, Tom, that I’ve completed my part of our deal,” said the voice.
And now you want me to complete mine, right?
“I’ll give you a few moments more to feel self-satisfied and smug.”
Thanks.
“You deserve it, big guy!”
It really is a wonderful novel isn’t it?
“One of the best.”
One of the best? You said that it would be the best!
“And so it was when you wrote it, but I’ve since struck similar deals with other writers. This isn’t a part-time job for me, you know.”
Right, well, I can’t complain.
“Not yet, at any rate.”
I laughed. You’re a witty one, I’ll give you that.
“Damnation with a wink and a smile – that’s my motto.”
So have you read my book? I think you’d like it.
“You’ll have plenty of time to tell me all about it when I see you.”
I couldn’t help laughing again.
I hate to disappoint you, but you’re not going to be seeing me any time soon.
“Let me guess, you think you’ve found a cunning loophole to get out of our deal, right?”
Right.
“How unexpected.”
It was wonderful to have the ability to put everything I wanted into my novel. No compromise, no failure of meaning; every notion, character, theme, plot, storyline and piece of dialogue was realised with startling precision and clarity. I put my heart and soul into it.
“I aim to please.”
I put my heart and soul into it.
“Ah.”
And now it’s out there in the wild. People will read it. They’ll own it. The difference between art and popular entertainment is that the latter has a shelf life whilst the former lasts forever. Popular entertainment belongs to the masses; to a generation or two. Art belongs to no one and everyone; to all generations. And thanks to you, my novel is a work of art. And I’ve put my soul into it; it lives on in the pages of the book.
“I see what you’re getting at. You can’t give what doesn’t belong to you, right? Your soul is in your writing. Sneaky. Devious. Underhand. I like that.”
I’m flattered. “Now get the hell out of my head!”
And he did. I was alone with my thoughts; alone in my room, in my chair before my desk. Not a sound could be heard. Not the tick of a clock, not the sigh of the wind; not the squeak of a hinge nor the creak of a floorboard.
Silence; not a sound could be heard. Not even the creak of a floorboard.
And I only knew that Tickler was behind me when I felt his stubble brush against my neck.
So without further ado, direct from my dusty old creative writing folder, here's a short story that I wrote called "Tickler". I hope you like it. I had fun writing it. Feedback is always appreciated.
Tickler
“I’m sorry,” said my agent, “they’re dropping you, Tom.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. After all this time, after all the money they had made from me, they were throwing me away like a piece of trash?
“Dropping me? But... why? My stuff sells. My books are all still in print.”
“Right, but the facts speak for themselves: the old reprints are doing fine but your last few novels didn’t perform well in the market.”
“But they were better - the reviews were more positive than they’ve ever been.”
“You know the industry, Tom. It’s not about art, it’s about profit.”
“Quality isn’t worth a damn, right?”
“I’m sorry.”
“So you said. What happens now, John?”
“We keep submitting. You could try adopting a pen name.”
“I’m fine with the name I was born with.”
“Well, that’s up to you. So what are you working on now?”
“A story about a serial killer; a hulking brute with a talent for creeping up on people. His victims only know he’s there when they feel the tickle of his stubble on the back of their neck. Gruesome things happen to them after that, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“Sounds good. How far along are you?”
“I’m finishing up the first draft as we speak.”
“Maybe I can put in a few calls. The editor at Del Ray owes me a few favours. Got a name for it yet?”
“Tickler.”
“Short, snappy, memorable; I like it. Ok, send it over as soon as you can. Speak to you soon.”
“Bye.”
I closed my cell phone with a snap and resumed gazing at the blank page of the newly opened word processor file on my monitor before me. Tickler. What the hell was I thinking? A story about a dainty footed murderer? What an awful idea. I’d no idea what I was going to write, and in truth I knew that I hadn’t had a workable idea for a long time.
I thought back to the beginning of my career; despite the struggle to get published and to build my reputation, it had been easier then. Clumsy with my craft, the words had flowed slowly in agonising fits and bursts but the ideas had gushed forth. My mind had been positively bursting with new ideas. Now, with twelve published novels behind me, the prose flowed more smoothly when I was inspired, but the ideas had dried up. Even so, my last few novels were the best things that I had ever written. I was sure of that, but why didn’t the public agree? Someone once said that most people were stupid. Maybe he was right. I wrote horror but that didn’t mean I was a hack - Poe and Lovecraft proved that. I would not lower myself to writing commercial trash!
“Good for you,” said a voice. “I like a man with principles.”
Startled, I looked around the room, but of course I was alone. So I was imagining voices in my head now? Gees, the stress must be getting to me more than I thought.
“Don’t worry,” said the voice, “this isn’t all in your head. Well, ok – yes, technically it is all in your head, but it’s also real.”
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Don’t talk out loud. People will think you’re crazy.”
And they’d probably be right, but I recast my question as a thought.
“A hot place,” he said. “I’m the guy with the pointy black beard and the snappy red suit.”
The devil?
“None other. Look, there are rules about where I can and can’t go. For instance, I can’t make house calls. I’d love to drop in for brunch, but it’s against the rules, so we’ll have to make do with this. Think of it as a spiritual telephone conversation.”
What do you want?
“For a horror writer, you’re not too sharp are you? I want to strike a bargain with you; I want you to make a traditional clichéd deal with me.”
You want my soul?
“No, I want your autograph.”
Really?
“No.”
And what will you give me in return?
“I’ll give you what your heart desires, obviously.”
“Do I get three wishes?”
“What did I say about talking aloud?”
Sorry. Well do I?
“Don’t push it, sunshine. I’m the Lord of Darkness, not a genie.”
But I don’t think I want to go to hell.
“Right, because you’re having so much fun where you are?”
Well, no. It looks like I’m going to have to compromise my artistic integrity for money, and I’ll hate myself for it. I’m facing a premature burial in the slush pile. I’m a has-been at forty three. It’s unbearable! And I can’t believe I just told you that.
“Don’t worry, it often happens with voice to mind communication - you’ve got a lot of subconscious thoughts and feelings rattling around that want to have their say. Look, friend, what if I can show you a way out?”
Go on.
“Your novels are getting better, but they’re also losing their mass appeal, right?”
Right.
“Well what if I boost your talent to the next level, so to speak. What if you could write a novel too wonderful to be ignored?”
I get to write a great novel in exchange for eternal damnation?
“Not just a great novel, the best novel. A timeless work of literature!”
I don’t know. I’m pretty happy with the way I write.
“A novel so wonderful that it can’t help but be admired and profitable!”
Admired and profitable?
“Is there an echo in here? Don’t play deaf; you’re listening to me with your head, remember, not your ears.”
And when do you get my soul?
“After I’ve fulfilled my end of the bargain, you fulfil yours.”
And what will you do with it?
“Nothing too grievous, I promise. I’m too sensitive for violence – I leave that to others.”
Can you give me a sign that this is real? Because I still think that I’m going crazy.
“Take a look at your monitor.”
As I watched, the screen filled with the words of the devil’s contract.
Ok, now that’s weird. Weird but persuasive.
“Just move the cursor to the bottom of the document and type your name in the space provided.”
You don’t want me to print it off and sign my name in blood?
“No, that’s unhygienic. Besides, what good would a hard copy be to me? The post office doesn’t deliver mail to my address, and the contract would only get singed by the flames if they did.”
That actually makes a strange kind of sense. So, anyway, hypothetically speaking, if I did sign the contract, how would I return it to you?
“You can email it to me at LordofFlies@inferno.com.”
How modern. Well, you’re wasting your time with me because there’s no way that I’m going to sign my soul over to you.
“Luckily for me, you fingers pay more attention to your desires than your mind does.”
What do you mean?
“Take a look at your keyboard.”
I looked down. My fingers were merrily tapping out my name.
Well, I’m not going to email this to you.
I copied and pasted the text into an email, completed the sender details, and clicked on the “send mail” button.
“Good man.”
That’s not fair. I didn’t mean to do that!
“Part of you did. I speak to the flaw in Man, and that’s the part that signed and sent the contract.”
Oh. So what happens now?
“It seems to me that you’ve got a novel to write.”
I don’t know what to write about.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something now that you’ve found your muse. I’ll be in touch.”
**
“Tom, my god, the book’s fantastic!” said my agent.
I couldn’t help grinning down the phone at him. “So you like it then?”
“Like it? I love it! I’ll admit it now: Tickler sounded rather lame when you told me about it, but it really works. No, ‘works’ doesn’t do it justice. It’s profound! It’s perceptive! It’s startling! I’ve never read anything quite like it before. It’s, it’s...”
“Art?”
“Yes, Tom, that’s exactly what it is – it’s a work of art!”
“But didn’t you say that art doesn’t sell?”
“Forget what I said - I’ve been fielding calls from New York and London all weekend.”
“That’s great!”
“Yeah, I’m expecting the offers to come in any day now. Ah! HarperCollins are on the other line - call you back later, ok? With good news, I think!”
“Ok.”
I closed my cell phone and leaned back with a smile. The words had flowed. The ideas had flowed. The pages sparkled. I didn’t know how much of it was down to me or to my muse, but it felt like my work; it had been typed by my fingers, it had come from my imagination. Tickler, the story of a stealthy, brutish murderer; what a wonderful idea!
“It seems to me, Tom, that I’ve completed my part of our deal,” said the voice.
And now you want me to complete mine, right?
“I’ll give you a few moments more to feel self-satisfied and smug.”
Thanks.
“You deserve it, big guy!”
It really is a wonderful novel isn’t it?
“One of the best.”
One of the best? You said that it would be the best!
“And so it was when you wrote it, but I’ve since struck similar deals with other writers. This isn’t a part-time job for me, you know.”
Right, well, I can’t complain.
“Not yet, at any rate.”
I laughed. You’re a witty one, I’ll give you that.
“Damnation with a wink and a smile – that’s my motto.”
So have you read my book? I think you’d like it.
“You’ll have plenty of time to tell me all about it when I see you.”
I couldn’t help laughing again.
I hate to disappoint you, but you’re not going to be seeing me any time soon.
“Let me guess, you think you’ve found a cunning loophole to get out of our deal, right?”
Right.
“How unexpected.”
It was wonderful to have the ability to put everything I wanted into my novel. No compromise, no failure of meaning; every notion, character, theme, plot, storyline and piece of dialogue was realised with startling precision and clarity. I put my heart and soul into it.
“I aim to please.”
I put my heart and soul into it.
“Ah.”
And now it’s out there in the wild. People will read it. They’ll own it. The difference between art and popular entertainment is that the latter has a shelf life whilst the former lasts forever. Popular entertainment belongs to the masses; to a generation or two. Art belongs to no one and everyone; to all generations. And thanks to you, my novel is a work of art. And I’ve put my soul into it; it lives on in the pages of the book.
“I see what you’re getting at. You can’t give what doesn’t belong to you, right? Your soul is in your writing. Sneaky. Devious. Underhand. I like that.”
I’m flattered. “Now get the hell out of my head!”
And he did. I was alone with my thoughts; alone in my room, in my chair before my desk. Not a sound could be heard. Not the tick of a clock, not the sigh of the wind; not the squeak of a hinge nor the creak of a floorboard.
Silence; not a sound could be heard. Not even the creak of a floorboard.
And I only knew that Tickler was behind me when I felt his stubble brush against my neck.