Issue #130
Harold Flinminster looked at the computer screen, smiled, and carefully moved the mouse to click on “save & close”. The bottle of cognac was sitting on the desk next to him and his last sentence had been carefully timed so as to allow the sacred elixir to hit just the right temperature. He poured the celebratory drink into the heavy bottomed, Stueben glass and sat back. Switching over to his web builder, he put the finishing touches on his latest announcement.
Calling all those with passion for the prose. I am ecstatic to announce to you that my latest installment in the Pearls Of Pegasus series has been officially finished. Poseidon’s Promise will be available for your enjoyment in less than a month, set your calendars!
Harold posted the update and swiveled around in his leather chair to gaze upon the top row of his bookshelves, admiring the pristine spines of each of his books that graced the room. Several prints of his favorite covers were also on the wall in front of him and he looked over them, smiling as if re-connecting with old friends. Still, the words were still the most important of all, and that was what he had to remember to tend to the most.
He turned back to the screen and again reviewed the email from another young hopeful author, although he might be using that term generously, considering the reprehensible state of the person’s prose. Honestly, he couldn’t understand why some people bothered trying to insert themselves into such a sacred calling as this, without even the wits capable of completing a legendary sentence. Not even worth the electricity running through what was probably his pathetic excuse for a computer.
Still, he should probably respond. If nothing else, he didn’t want to come across as being cold or dismissive, uninvested in the minds and quills of tomorrow. He was a mentor and, as such, it was his sacred duty and responsibility to lead the young hopefuls along, like chicks looking to their mother for the food that they needed ever so much to live. The image brought a smile to his lip and a light chuckle as he imagined the faceless writers, struggling in a giant, human sized bird nest, straining to be fed by some great, benevolent, but unseen master. That master was him and oh, how generous he was with his time and abilities. It wasn’t enough for him to be a beacon of the pen and the prose, he also had to do whatever he could to help lift those out of the darkness of their inabilities. Often, there was little he could do, but he saved who he could and those he couldn’t, he could at least attempt to make them realize that maybe where they really belonged was in the dark.
He opened his email software and cracked his knuckles, trying to decide how best to approach this particular boondoggle.
Mr. Brett Campor
You recently inquired with me in reference to your writing, asking me if I could read some of it and provide you with feedback. I don’t generally have time to accommodate requests such as they are, but every now and then, I will take one on, in the hopes of providing what insight I have gained over the two decades I have persevered as a professional writer.
I read the sample you sent and, to be honest, I wish I could tell you that I enjoyed the piece or that I saw promise in your prose, but I’m afraid I cannot. Some may say that all writers need to be encouraged and supported, but I feel strongly on this issue, that if I give you an inaccurate picture of your own writing, I do a disservice to you as well as the industry as a whole. As authors, it is our responsibility to excel in our craft and be the best of the best. If I felt that your writing could be worked on, I would maybe take the time to give you some guidance but, unfortunately I don’t believe that it would do you any good. At some point, you have to accept that there is a certain amount of talent which you either have or don’t. Unfortunately, in your case, you fall into the category of “don’t have it”.
Writing is a noble endeavor, harking back to the bard himself. We, as a profession must seek and encourage only the best of the absolute best, the ones honored with the privilege of entertaining the masses, turning on the light for everyone else. Unfortunately, I don’t feel like you can be trusted with this unique responsibility. I find your verbiage pedestrian, your use of the passive voice hair-rending and your inability to maintain a consistent flow to your narrative is inexcusable. I’m sure that there are plenty of other, more blue collar type endeavors that would be suited for an intellect such as yours, but as it stands, I think the honor of being a writer is well outside the boundaries of your limited—
Harold pushed back from his computer, staring with some incredulity at the screen. The glass was starting to shimmer, as if it was melting in several, small spots, The glass started to flex outward, almost imperceptibly at first, but then a clear shape started to form before him. He watched as the imprint of a pixelated hand formed on the screen and began to push outward, out of the computer. From another universe, he felt his jaw dropping open as the hand emerged from the screen and began reaching for him, slowly. As the realization set in of what was about to happen, however, the hand opened, and took hold of his face, gripping it tightly before he could push back from the desk.
The fingers felt abrasive at first and then, with a sickening smell of something burning, he felt like his face was on fire. Harold screamed, a scream that was mostly muffled by the hand. He grabbed at the thing, still tethered to the computer with its elongated, digital arm. He reached for the computer, thinking maybe if he turned it off, this thing might dissipate as well. When he couldn’t find the power switch, the resorted to slapping at his face, trying to knock the thing loose.
In an instant, the heat increased, and he was thrust into a moment of searing pain, more than he had ever even contemplated was possible. The fingers of the hand pressed in, and started to push through the flesh, down towards the bone. His anguished cry was cut off as he suddenly felt moisture dripping down his face and in his waning moments, wondered if that was his blood that he felt, or if it was his skin.
Once done, the hand pulled back from whatever was left, and retracted back into the screen, retreating through digital pathways and signals until it returned to its starting position, back to home. Brett Campor pulled his hand back out of his monitor, flexed it as he watched the digitized skin return to it’s normal, physical state, wincing at the pins and needles sensation as it did so. He looked at the screen and punched in a command to disconnect the link with that pompous writer’s computer, deleting the draft of the email that was going to be sent to him. He shook his head and stood up to walk back to the kitchen, speaking softly to himself as he did so.
“It’s called manners.”
