You don't have to wait any longer! I have finally published another short story for your enjoyment and entertainment. It is meta-fiction which means it is not an ordinary story and may seem strange at first. Just roll with it. It discusses and comments on writing conventions within the story itself. Kind of like writing with in writing...Or writing-ception! I wrote it for a creative writing class a year and a half ago. It made me laugh writing it (plus every time I've reread it) and I hope it does the same to you!
You may either click the link to read it in another tab, or you may simply read it below on this page. Enjoy and feel free to comment. I love feedback of any kind! (Note: I believe you need a g-mail account to comment on this Google based blog site otherwise just post on Facebook.)Word Count: 2718
9 Pages
Book Number Eight
This is a story of a young woman who attempts to make it to the bookstore before it closes and claim her reward‒a long-awaited book. To protect her identity let us call her Emily. It is a pretty name. I knew an Emily once. She had long blond hair and bright green eyes. She was a wonderful woman who gave willingly and never raised her voice. Our Emily looks and acts nothing like this; she has plain brown hair cut in the pixie fashion with a temper like a tornado. Her eyes are brown with gold flecks and today we find her wearing her usual black skirt and button-up white shirt for work as a secretary. (It is important to establish how the hero/heroine has money otherwise the authenticity of a piece crumbles like a dry piece of cake.)
We find Emily eagerly watching the clock on a Friday afternoon. All day she has been doing her work halfheartedly. In fact, she has developed a pattern. First, she checks the new voice-mails of which there are usually very few. Fidgeting slightly, she straightens out her pristine desk. Sometimes, after she answers a phone call or two, there are papers to write, emails to send, or memos to fax. Shortly after that, she gets a drink from the blue water jug. While sipping the cool water, Emily eagerly peeks into her boss's office just in case he might be done early, thereby granting her the chance to leave early as well. After a moment of disappointment, she starts all over again.
You see, on this particular day, Emily’s favorite author finally released the last book in her eight book series: Love Hidden In Plain View. Emily has been waiting months for the final book and won't stop talking about it to her co-worker, Dylan. It is a delightful series about a man who loves a woman, but her head is stuck in the clouds...
“Get on with it, Writer,” interrupts Emily, “I know what the series is about. Just keep writing so I can finally find out what happens.” Did I mention she is nothing like the Emily I once knew?
(You don’t have to be rude, Emily. I was only providing background for our readers. It is important for them to understand why leaving work early to buy the book is important to you.)
“Well can’t you tell them while I am driving? Preferably in the direction of the bookstore.”
(Very well.)
Now before I forget, you need to know this as it is very important later in the story. So pay attention! Emily’s co-worker, Dylan (again, name changed for security purposes), has had a crush on her since she started working there over nine months ago. Emily has failed to notice, of course.
Anyway, the clock finally chimes 5 o’clock. Emily signs out and grabs her purse from her desk. But, just as she is about to dash out the door, Dylan, dressed in black slacks and an orange button-up shirt, steps in front of her and blocks the only exit.
“Hi, Em. Listen, I’m glad you’re ready to leave.” Emily shoots the clock another glance, bites her lower lip, and begins to slowly edge around him. “I was wondering if you would like to go...?”
“Oh, gee, Dylan, I’d love to, but I have to go. I’ll see you on Monday.” The last five words are yelled over her shoulder at his shocked and disappointed face as she sprints past him out the office, into the elevator, out the building, through the parking lot, and to the door of her car.
(How rude, Emily. That handsome man asks you out and you brush him off before he even has a chance to fin...)
“Is this going to take long, Writer? I am in a big hurry you know.”
(Hmph.)
She unlocks the door and throws her purple leather purse onto the passenger seat. She turns the key and, thankfully, the car starts. She rushes to the bookstore...going fifteen over the speed limit.
(Emily, slow down, you’re going to get yourself killed.)
“Not if you write I don’t.” Her smug face smirks as she runs a red light.
(Well, maybe I will. Maybe I’ll have you end up in a coma, or get pulled over by a policeman, or get stuck in traffic. Then you will never know what happens in the last book. I can you know.)
“Yes, but that wouldn’t make for a good story now would it. It would end prematurely and no one would read it.”
(…)
She continues driving, miraculously dodging cars and evading secret policeman. When she arrives at the bookstore, however...there are no parking spaces.
“What! No parking spaces. What kind of horribly cruel writer are you.”
(There has to be some kind of opposition, Emily. Otherwise the story wouldn’t be entertaining.)
“I don’t want entertaining. I want my book. The store is closing in 15 minutes.”
(Well, then I suggest you park somewhere and run.)
Due to the lack of parking spaces near the bookstore, Emily is forced to park nearly a block away. By the time she finds one, only 10 minutes remain before the bookstore closes. She leaps from the car, locks it, and bolts for the store.
“Bolts? I can’t bolt, you idiot. I am wearing 3 inch heels and a pencil skirt.”
(Yes. I know.)
“It’s like you don’t want me to make it in time. Why can’t I just read my book and find out if Emalee finally realizes Dillon loves her so they can live happily ever after?”
(Because you are irritating me. Why can’t you just forget about it? Call Dylan and go on a real date? You know, one that you actually go on instead of just read about? He really is cute (I should know, I wrote him that way) and any girl would die to go on a date with him (most never have the chance).)
“I don’t have time for this, Cruel One. I will just take my shoes off and run.”
(You mean bolt.)
“No, I mean run!”
(Whatever.)
Emily continues to run in a fashion that resembles bolting (take that) until her path is blocked by two older ladies returning to their cars after doing some grocery shopping. Poor Emily stubs her toe when she stops so quickly and rips a hole in the toe of her last pair of black tights. Her purple leather purse hits her hip and elbow. (Ouch, those are going to bruise.) Cursing her injuries, she frantically looks for some way around them. It isn’t easy though because they are carrying a lot of bags. Some filled with vegetables all the colors of the rainbow, others filled with crispy fresh bread, still more filled with...
“Seriously? Are you seriously boring the reader with useless information in the middle of the climax?”
(I was trying to provide some more descriptions. I felt like the reader wanted to read more details.)
“Well, get on with my story, O Useless One!”
(You are really starting to annoy me...)
Thinking fast, Emily conveniently dodges them and reaches for the door handle. Lurching it open, she throws herself inside. She bends over trying to catch her breath. Feelings of triumph and satisfaction well up inside her. She straightens and freezes...
She is in the wrong store...
Emily screams in outrage, throwing her clenched fists into the air. Turning around, she pushes the door open and races to the bookstore next door, barely making it in time. She runs past the clerk who was walking over to close the store, frantically searching around for the section. She finally finds the bookshelf that holds her awaited novel, but to her utter dismay there aren’t any books there.
In desperation, she retraces her steps to the front desk, and proceeds to ask the irritated, tired clerk if they have any in stock.
“Oh, no, I’m sorry, ma’am we sold the last one at lunch today. We should be getting more next week. Have a nice day and thanks for stopping by.”
With glazed brown eyes Emily turns and shuffles out of the store. The sign flips from HELLO, WE’RE OPEN to SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED the moment she leaves. She stumbles a few steps before wrenching sobs offset her balance. She crumbles to the ground, scraping her black skirt on the rough concrete, nearly ripping it at the seams, and hangs her head.
(Oh come now, Emily. Don’t be a drama queen. You may not see it, but this is actually a good thing.)
“A good thing. Hiccup. How is this a good thing?”
(If I told you it wouldn’t be much of a story now would it. The hero/heroine has to discover things on their own. Listen, why don’t you just call Dylan, apologize, and let him distract you from this.)
“I don’t want to talk to you. Go away!”
Emily, still crying, rises shakily and shuffles back to her car. She wipes her tears and her mascara leaves horizontal trails giving her an Egyptian cat look. She passes couples laughing and children screaming, but she doesn’t hear or see them. The bakery beside her car fills the air with sweet treats, but she doesn’t smell them. Flowers bloom in every shade of purple and orange in the flowerbed next to her car, but she doesn’t see them.
After reaching her car, she mechanically drives home stopping at the drive through for dinner. Extra large fries and a greasy bacon and double hamburger? Oh, Emily, what am I going to do with you? Dazed, Emily sits alone at her table for two, eating the greasy comfort food, then tops it off with a large bowl of mint-brownie ice cream.
(Oh, Emily, that’s a lot of ice cream. Are you sure you should eat all of that? Especially after that...nutritious meal?)
“I am not talking to you. But if I were, I would tell you that if I had more ice cream I would eat it too. I have no reason not to.”
(All, right then. Eat your heartless, cold, unhuggable ice cream.)
It is still early so she takes a lavender bubble bath and re-reads the seventh book in the series to calm herself. However, that only reminds her that she doesn’t have the last one. As she gets into her pajamas and crawls into bed, she knows she won’t be able to sleep. Why, you might ask. Because she recognizes that her life sucks and she doesn’t know what to do about it and she refuses to take any advice from me.
“Do you mind, Writer? I am trying to sleep here, and for your information, that is not what I was thinking about.”
Sigh. Still in denial I see. Around 2 o’clock in the morning, Emily finally falls asleep. Her alarm goes off at 9 o’clock which is far too late for someone to be rising.
“Oh come on. I just woke up and you are already nagging at me. Just because you wake up at five in the morning doesn’t mean I have to. Now, hurry up and write breakfast into the story, I’m hungry and cranky.”
(Not yet, Emily, remember, you still have to go running. You set that goal to run three miles every Saturday. Only you should probably run five to burn those extra ice cream calories...)
“All right. Leave me alone, I’m changing and brushing my teeth.”
Locking the front door behind her, Emily stretches and starts off on a light jog to warm up. Accelerating into a faster jog, she finally achieves a steady run, her feet following the routine she has memorized. Thirty minutes later, she arrives at a quiet park where she stops to catch her breath before returning home.
(Oh, Emily. Look at that cute couple having an early lunch picnic.)
“I see them. What about them? Their happiness has nothing to do with me.” She trails off as she continues to watch them. Her sweaty face relaxes and she stops to stare. Just before it gets creepy, she turns and resumes her run. Returning to her home, she walks up the front steps to open the door.
(Emily, don’t forget to stretch. You don’t want to be sore.)
“What? Oh, right.”
She finishes her stretches and walks inside to take a shower. Drying off she puts on an...orange polka-dot sun dress that she hasn’t worn since I made her buy it.
(What are you doing, Emily? After your run you usually dress in sweats and clean the house. Why are you wearing that nice dress...and doing your hair and makeup? You...you aren’t thinking of going out are you?)
“What if I am?” She huffs. “It’s a free country. I can go out on a Saturday night if I want to.”
(May I ask with whom?)
“I don’t see why it concerns you, but if you must know I was thinking of calling Dylan.”
And she did.
She called, apologized for yesterday, and promised to meet him at a nearby restaurant around six. She drove there, obeying every speed limit and arrived just in time. There is a parking space right next to the front door, and when she gets out of her car, his dreamy smile coaxes a small grin to form on her glossy lips. He begins chatting pleasantly as soon as her 3 inch heels hit the pavement. His shaggy brown hair falls slightly in his eyes and he has a 5 o’clock shadow on his chiseled jaw (only by now it was closer to a 6 o’clock shadow). Escorting her, he opens the door and leads her inside. He pulls the chair out for her and makes sure she has something cool to drink.
“Did you hear me, Em?” The sound of her nickname ends her reverie. She had been thinking about her book. (On a date, Emily? Oh really, what am I going to do with you. I can only do so much you know.)
“Oh, I’m sorry, Dylan. I was trying to remember if I locked my car.” What a liar.
“You did, I remember. Anyway, I was saying that you look lovely in that dress. So different from the outfits you wear to work. Oh, I have something for you. A present, if you will.” He pretends like he just remembered, but his nonchalant manner can’t mask the gleam in his eye. He doesn’t wait for her to respond before he places a bright orange gift bag on the table that matches her dress. Her favorite color, what a coincidence. “I was going to wait until after dinner, but, now seemed like the right time.”
Curious, she looks at the bag, at him, then back at the bag. She reaches for it but is stopped as their waiter appears. “Did you figure out what you would like to eat?” Emily scowls (and I know it is at me) before looking back at the menu. When both of them order, she again reaches for the bag...
And is stopped a second time by the manager who proceeds to ask them questions and make small talk. Finally, she manages to send him over to the next table. By now Emily is so intensely curious that when the waiter greets them with their food immediately after the manager leaves, she practically snaps at her to go away! Typical Emily.
(Calm down, Emily. I am building the suspense, you don’t have to take it out on her.)
She rolls her gold flecked brown eyes in response. Finally, they are alone again, and, before I can write another interruption, she snatches the bag from off the table. Dylan chuckles at her obvious impatience which he has come to know and (dare I say it?) love. “I know you have been waiting a long time for this. I bought the last one at lunch yesterday just for you.” He smiles as her eyes widen and her tight lips part slightly.
Emily pushes the tissue paper out of the way, reaches in, and as she pulls out what is inside, gives a small sob; Love at Last: Book Number Eight in the series Love Hidden In Plain View.
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