Scene 1<\/p>\n
\u201cTater, please, listen to me,\u201d she implored with a subterranean chill in her voice. She pushed an auburn forelock back into her bandana, her callused fingers stained twenty shades of humus. \u201cIf I don\u2019t get a fair price for these turnips, Tap says I\u2019ll be pushing up carrots. You gotta help me.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n Tater stood with his hands on his waist, arms as akimbo as a pump-handle. His voice was gentle but firm. Deep down he admired her, but he loathed the sucker she worked for. He seemed to just pull the life out of her. \u201cFirst of all, Ginger, you tell ol\u2019 garlic breath that if he lays one finger on you, I\u2019ll beat him to a pulp. Now, that being said,<\/em><\/p>\n “I can only give you rock bottom for these turnips. I\u2019m as broke as dirt and he knows it. If he don\u2019t like that answer, tell him I said he can go pound\u2014”<\/em><\/p>\n Shcreeeeeee!!!!<\/p>\n Uninvited, the espresso machine pronounced its phlegmy dominion over the writers huddled in the coffee nook of Mille-feuille Books.<\/p>\n \u201cDammit, Bennett!” Lance slapped his journal shut. “Can you find us another place in the store to meet? That brew monster wreaks havoc with all my lofty dialog.\u201d<\/p>\n Bennett smiled as he sat back from the edge of his chair. \u201cSeriously! I’ll see what I can do, Lance. You want to keep going?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, man,\u201d Lance shrugged his shoulders. \u201cI need momentum to hit those punch lines. It\u2019s not as easy as it looks.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI get that,\u201d Bennett laughed. \u201cI will say, however, that you\u2019re moving the story right along, and the characters keep getting more vivid. And your visuals\u2014they\u2019re really coming on strong. Still thinking about the title?\u201d<\/p>\n Lance beamed back at Bennett. \u201cYeah, still leaning towards \u2018The Roots of All Evil\u2019. But being a farm noir set among permaculturists, I\u2019m also thinking about calling it \u2018Buzz…Kill.\u2019 What strikes you?\u201d<\/p>\n A group chuckle pre-empted Bennett\u2019s reply. He waited for the laughter to subside. \u201cThere, you have your answer. Both titles get our attention!\u201d He looked around the table. \u201cOkay, Lance here yields his time to whoever is next. So who\u2019s up?\u201d<\/p>\n The answer came buzzing through a speaker overhead: “Bennett, please come to the Order Desk for a moment.”<\/p>\n Bennett responded with a grimacing facepalm. \u201cI think I’ll find another place to work, too! Sorry guys, I\u2019m the MOD tonight. I’ll be right back.” He tossed his journal onto the table, lifted his leg over the back of the chair, and trotted across the store.<\/p>\n “Okay, but why don\u2019t you read next?” Gwen called after him. She scanned the faces at the table. “I could use a little break, how about you guys?”<\/p>\n She was answered by the scraping of library chairs on the distressed plank floor and the irregular drop of composition books onto the table. The six members of the loosely organized group spread in different directions, some to the restrooms, a couple out to smoke, and others to the counter to elicit more espresso wheezing.<\/p>\n Meeting weekly over the past five years, the group had become an open and trusting band of friends. They each welcomed critique and bore it well. They felt that if one of them hit the big time, it was a win for all of them. Trust between them had become so great that they didn\u2019t hesitate to leave their table unattended, though it held purses, laptops, and a mountain of journals. Their caf\u00e9 table, however, was an island in a sea of invidiousness.<\/p>\n Slowly the group reconvened, sipping drinks and catching up on each others\u2019 lives. Bennett made his way from the Order Desk. He paused near the Cooking section to greet an old friend.<\/p>\n \u201cHey, Martin! It\u2019s good to see you! Did you come to sit in tonight?\u201d He motioned over to his merry band of scribes.<\/p>\n Martin smiled warmly. \u201cNo, I just came to do a little work. I get a mite stale staying in all evening.\u201d<\/p>\n He patted the satchel thrown over his shoulder, bulging with papers and books. \u201cI was asked to make another round of edits on the food culture proposal. But thanks for the invitation. Please, remind me again how often you and your fellow writers meet?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWeekly, same place, seven PM. You\u2019re welcome any time.\u201d Bennett caught some eager faces out of the corner of his eye. \u201cBut hey, looks like the gang is getting restless, so I need to get back to the circle. We need to meet for coffee and catch up. Lots to talk about!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, certainly. I\u2019ll see you soon, Bennett,” Martin said distractedly as he pulled out a new title by Herv\u00e9 This. He flipped through its pages, then disappeared among the bookshelves, seeking a quiet nook and an overstuffed chair.<\/p>\n Bennett speed-walked back to the table. He pulled out his chair and sat down.<\/p>\n “So, Bennett, who’s that?” asked Kurt, speaking for the impatient group.<\/p>\n “Oh, sorry about that, guys. He\u2019s an old friend of mine, a writer himself, somewhat vexed with his own brilliance.”<\/p>\n \u201cAren\u2019t we all!\u201d grinned Lance. \u201cSo what\u2019s his variety?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe published a book a few years ago, and of course we have it here. I\u2019ll bring a copy next week and read you an excerpt. His work can be a bit challenging, to be honest. I think someone once called him \u2018esoteric yet approachable,\u2019 which is a kiss of death, I guess.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cUgh, that\u2019s got to be hard to bear,\u201d opined Evie, the group\u2019s designated poet laureate.<\/p>\n Bennett continued, \u201cI\u2019ve never known anyone who researches as much as he does. Man, he gets the most obscure and arcane information! It\u2019s all relevant, all meaningful, but he just leaves me bewildered now and then. He\u2019s definitely not in the mainstream.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, that would apply to most of us,\u201d offered Gwen sympathetically. \u201cWhy doesn\u2019t he sit in now and then?\u201d<\/p>\n Bennett nodded his agreement. \u201cYeah, but for some folks, writing is an intensely solitary process.\u00a0 I know lots of writers who\u2019ll never read anyone a work in progress. That\u2019d be like exposing a seedling to harsh temperatures. You have to harden the plant first, slowly introducing it to the big bad world outside the greenhouse.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLance should do that with his turnip jokes,\u201d said Kurt with a grin. \u201cMaybe they\u2019d come out a little better developed!\u201d He gave Lance a brotherly punch in the arm. It was returned, double strength.<\/p>\n \u201cOkay, look boys, settle down,\u201d scolded Gwen. \u201cNow, Bennett, what do you have for us?\u201d<\/p>\n Bennett scanned the table for his journal, but it wasn\u2019t to be seen. He reached behind his chair and pulled his canvas bag around. He immediately noticed it was lighter than usual. He furrowed his brow and surveyed the faces around him.<\/p>\n “Hey, where’s my journal? I swear I put it in here before I left home. I thought I took it out already,” he mumbled as he sorted through the stack on the table again.<\/p>\n Kurt began rummaging on the table, too. \u201cIt was one of those flashy new red ones, right?\u201d<\/p>\n Bennett\u2019s anxiety began to rise. “Okay, guys, joke’s up. Let me have my journal back.”<\/p>\n “I don’t have it,” Gwen answered, quite honestly.<\/p>\n “Me neither,” concurred Lance.<\/p>\n In turn, they all denied having the book, being too protective about their own work to fool with someone else’s.<\/p>\n “I tell you, it was in my bag when I got to the store this morning. I hope I didn’t lose it anywhere. Geez, it was some of my best work to date.” Bennett’s usually carefree face showed confusion mixed with worry.<\/p>\n Scene 2<\/p>\n The moon stalked the casement window, easily overpowering the dim lamp on the desk inside. A light breeze\u00a0 slithered across the sill, ushering October\u2019s chill into another solitary evening.<\/p>\n Elongated shadows flowed across a red journal, lying open on a distressed desk. Turning a page, the man let his agitation flow through his red pen.<\/p>\n “Damn!” he muttered as he stabbed at the page. Red slashes eliminated entire sentences. Carets erupted recklessly, injecting themselves unwelcomingly into perfectly formed and economic prose. The page\u2019s margins overflowed with commentary begun, crossed-out, and resumed. A giant serpentine scribble darted voraciously from the upper right to the lower left of the page.<\/p>\n “What is it about his writing? He\u2019s a simpleton, yet his writing moves! I\u2019ve had enough!” He gripped the right hand side of the page, viciously ripping it out by its roots. Delighted by his own outburst, he convulsed his way through the remaining pages, stopping only when they were all balled up at his feet.<\/p>\n He stood and let the harrowed binding fall with a dead thud on the oaken floor. Random planks creaked as he walked to the window.<\/p>\n “What does one do with such a person?” he mused into the full moonlight. He pushed his hands through his hair, clasped them behind his head, and breathed quietly and deeply. He closed his eyes.<\/p>\n “I just don\u2019t even know. If he is what the world wants, then I am adrift in a sea of incompetence. I should just \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n He turned towards the desk and reached for the lamp’s pull chain, hesitating suddenly before clicking it off.<\/p>\n “Wait a minute\u2026”<\/p>\n He knelt down and picked up a crumpled page. He placed it on the desk and flattened it out, smoothing the dominant creases by rolling them over the desk’s edge. He reached for another page, then scooped them all into his cupped arms. One by one he spread them and stacked them into a neat but ragged pile. He resisted the urge to put them back into their original order. To him that seemed a bit obsessive.<\/p>\n He laid the ruptured journal on top of its pages, as if it were a paperweight. With a quick jerk he turned off the lamp.<\/p>\n Annoyed by the moon\u2019s persistence, he impatiently released the blinds. They rumbled and clattered, punctuated by the slamming of the door.<\/p>\n Scene 3<\/p>\n \u201cHey, got a moment?<\/em>\u201d Gwen read aloud, embodying her main character.<\/p>\n \u201cI need to tell ya somethin\u2019. It\u2019s about those gophers, man, talk about trouble. They\u2019re always poppin\u2019 up in the middle of my bizness\u2014you know what a hassle that is? Now you might think ol\u2019 Frank here has crossed a line, that he\u2019s bein\u2019 a speciesist. Say what ya will, but I\u2019m just tellin\u2019 it like it is. And trust me kids, I got no reason to lie to ya.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n Giggles circulated around the table as her light, wispy voice struggled to emulate a four-packs-a-day rasp. Martin, sitting in for the first time, looked on bemused. Gwen continued.<\/p>\n \u201cBut ya wanna know who really locks my jaw? It\u2019s those moles. They have an underground network or somethin\u2019, like a bunch o\u2019 spies. Don\u2019t ever trust \u2018em. I\u2019d tell you more but your parents are prolly in the room.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n Gwen closed her comp book and looked at the group. Her foggy anxiety dissipated in the warmth of appreciative countenances.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, what do you think?\u201d she asked, regaining her own persona. \u201cI know it needs illustrations, but is there enough in the text itself?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, there\u2019s enough!\u201d laughed Evie. \u201cYou have such a strong character! I wish my mom had read me some of these stories. That would have messed me up even more!\u201d<\/p>\n Bennett looked at Martin, noting his reticence. \u201cMartin, we agreed a long time ago that if we think someone has written crap, we tell them we think it\u2019s crap. If we\u2019re confused, we say we\u2019re confused. If we think it\u2019s the best thing we\u2019ve ever heard, well, actually, we never say that. But maybe it would help if Gwen caught you up on her character. Gwen?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, sure,\u201d she nodded understandingly. \u201cI write children\u2019s stories, and my main guy here is Frank the Very Frank Chipmunk. His adventures always have a moral, and he\u2019s pledged to always tell kids the truth. I created him because we really have a lack of honest, adult role models. I think he helps kids cut through all the b.s. in the world, so they can see what\u2019s really going on.\u201d<\/p>\n Martin nodded with muted condescension. \u201cSo, then, the voice?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, that!\u201d Gwen smiled proudly. \u201cWell, I\u2019ve imagined his world in ways that I can\u2019t really put into a children\u2019s book. Like the fact that he\u2019s a heavy smoker, and that the cup of dandelion tea he has every night maybe has a little something in it. In the stories, his best friend is a gray squirrel, but we all know that there are some benefits being passed around. He lives in Ohio or somewhere Middle-America, but in my mind he\u2019s straight out of the Bronx.<\/p>\n \u201cI believe that if I flesh out his character in the larger world, then I can easily find the truths he needs to convey to children.\u201d She looked at Martin with confidence and solicitation.<\/p>\n \u201cLike moles are spies?\u201d Martin asked a little incredulously. \u201cWhat is the moral there?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, that\u2019s just for fun. I realize it might be a bit confusing, but stick around and you\u2019ll get a sense of the overall \u2018oeuf,\u2019 as Evie might say.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201c\u2019Oeuf? Isn\u2019t that an egg?\u201d<\/p>\n Evie leaned forward onto the table and gave Gwen a friendly sneer. \u201cShe\u2019s referring to my poetry. I play with words a lot, and in the process certain juxtapositions occur. I\u2019m not sure it\u2019d be your thing, actually. But my hope is that people think of things in bigger ways, that they feel the intrinsic connection that encompasses seemingly disparate realities. So in this case, \u2018oeuf\u2019 is a stand-in for \u2018oeuvre,\u2019 which really says a lot about our work as artists, don\u2019t you think? The homophonic characteristics create a sense of depth, while the nearly synonymous qualities expand our comprehension infinitely.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOeuf and oeuvre are not exactly synonyms,\u201d Martin replied.<\/p>\n Evie raised an eyebrow and looked Martin directly in the eyes. \u201cRooster vainly crows\/Hen quietly sits a-nest\/Oeuf her life\u2019s oeuvre,\u201d she said coolly. She sat back and crossed her arms, awaiting his rejoinder.<\/p>\n Martin stared at Evie a moment, then glanced around the circle at the suppressed grins. Gwen offered a supportive smile. \u201cShe swears via haiku, just warning you. You won\u2019t be able to out-maneuver her. She\u2019s formidable.\u201d<\/p>\n Evie tapped an imaginary service bell on the table. \u201cDing! Next!\u201d she added prosaically.<\/p>\n Anxiously, Bennett motioned towards the writer on Gwen\u2019s left. \u201cI think she means you, Stu! Whatcha got for us tonight?\u201d<\/p>\n Stu sat up and tugged at his faded concert t-shirt. \u201cYeah, uh, sure. So Mart, just to give you a little heads up so you don\u2019t have some kinda freak-out, I write fan fiction. There are a lot of universes out there, dude, so don\u2019t get too hung up on any reality you might be unfamiliar with. You into fan fic at all?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCan\u2019t say that I am,\u201d Martin replied, patronizingly. \u201cBut I do appreciate your letting me know ahead of time. I promise I won\u2019t\u2026um\u2026how to say this? I\u2019ll give you a lot of leeway, let\u2019s say.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDude, don\u2019t get all uppity! Rush fan-fic is serious stuff, just maybe not what you\u2019re used to. Chill, man.\u201d<\/p>\n Bennett held up a hand. \u201cHey, sorry to interrupt, but just read, Stu. Let\u2019s all relax a bit. We seem a bit tense tonight, and that\u2019s not really our thing. So, give us a little recap first, and then let your work speak for itself. I\u2019m sure Martin will grok once you get started.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, sure thing, Bennett. So, if you guys remember, in the last chapter, Tom Sawyer had just been dragged before the Priests of the Temples of Syrinx.\u201d<\/p>\n Scene 4<\/p>\n Bennett turned his room inside-out once again, but still there was no sign of his missing journal. He had cursed himself so much over the past ten days that he had no more words left. Why had he clung to such a quaint old habit, writing with a pen on paper? He had convinced himself that words flowed better that way, that they transmitted themselves through his body\u2019s neurons into the atoms of the pen and its ink, implanting themselves into the grain of the paper, constant contact with each syllable, movement, and thought.<\/p>\n He felt like a character in his latest story: the password had been encoded on a chip, sewn into the hem of his climbing pants. All he had to do was complete the ascent\u2014like he\u2019d done in VR dozens of times\u2014and walk past the cairn, lightly brushing his leg against the lowest protruding stone. An easy, unnoticeable action which would trigger transmission of leaked documents from clandestine meetings at COP 26. The following political explosion would forestall a literal one, and the western world would live another day. But losing his grip at the edge, he plunged backward over the precipice, never to be heard from again.<\/p>\n Why hadn\u2019t he at least made a backup on the copy machine, after hours at work?<\/p>\n And speaking of work, he noticed he was now late for the fourth time this week.<\/p>\n Scene 5<\/p>\n Bennett had forgotten how heavy the restock cart could be. Why didn\u2019t they put larger wheels on this thing? Some which could bully their way over the carpet rather than meekly wrestling against the industrial pile?<\/p>\n Consigned to restock duties for three days\u2014due to his recent spate of tardiness\u2014he grumbled through historical fiction and groaned over dictionaries. Why so many words?<\/p>\n Isn\u2019t that the immortal question? Why so many words when only a few will do? He was guilty of over-prosing himself, that\u2019s for certain. In the search for the perfect phrasing, or to deluge the reader with emotion, he had traded rhapsody for symphony. The Sumerians didn\u2019t waste their time: they put stylus to tablet and got straight to the point. The Ten Commandments were the very model of efficiency and sufficient to hold an entire culture together. But now here he was struggling with words by the volume.<\/p>\n Looking up from the cart, he spotted Martin filtering between shelves. He was carrying a substantial stack of books.<\/p>\n \u201cOh, please buy those books, Mart. Don\u2019t leave them in a reading area. Don\u2019t leave them outside the restroom or in the coffee shop. Buy them or put them back yourself\u2014Oh, hi, Martin, What\u2019s up?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHello, Bennett. Is someone ill today? I\u2019ve never seen you relegated to the restock cart.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah,\u201d he lied. \u201cYou know how part-timers can be. Just take random days off, no-show all the time. Leave us committed working class heroes to pick up their load. By the way, that\u2019s quite a haul there.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMm-hmm. Research. I never feel like I know enough about what I\u2019m writing. By the way, did you ever find your misplaced story?\u201d<\/p>\n Bennett shook his head and gripped the cart. \u201cNo. And it\u2019s driving me crazy. I keep thinking it\u2019ll show up somewhere here, pushed out from under a caf\u00e9 table when they finally sweep that place. Or maybe it fell behind a magazine rack or who knows. I just hope it turns up. I had such a head of steam on the story, too.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat is definitely tragic.\u201d Martin casually picked a book off the cart. \u201cI don\u2019t want to keep you from your work, but do you mind if I quickly check what you have here? Might save you a bit of trouble.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHelp yourself!\u201d Bennett chuckled. He resumed shelving fiction, by author, last name beginning with M.<\/p>\n Martin shuffled through the non-fiction titles, flipping aimlessly through a few of them. He spotted the blank journals lower on the cart.<\/p>\n \u201cBennett, I don\u2019t suppose you\u2019re putting these back out, too?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, except for the ones you\u2019re buying!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll relieve you of two at least. Now which ones?\u201d<\/p>\n After carefully considering three or four, he selected two and placed the others back on the cart. He called a quick goodbye to Bennett, who was now working his way through the Rs.<\/p>\n An hour later, after providing breaks for folks at the counter, Bennett was left with only the blank journals. He had fended off restock from the customer service desk, the front counter, and the coffee shop. He was on the home stretch. No need to alphabetize blank books!<\/p>\n He grabbed a handful and began rapidly organizing by color, stripes, checks, sequins. Seriously, he thought to himself, why sequins? We love sparkly things, but did the presumptive artisan who made these ever try to shelve them?<\/p>\n His internal rant was sharply halted. Poking out of a journal\u2014a brilliant red one like the one he\u2019d lost\u2014was a torn page. He immediately recognized the fragment of script which was showing, for it was his own. A torrent of emotions washed over him: anxiety, confusion, anger, and a bit of fear.<\/p>\n Hesitating for a tense moment, he opened the journal and pulled out the page. It had been torn, violently it seemed, from its binding. Heavily creased, it appeared to have been crumpled, then flattened out again. A scarlet serpent raged its way down the page, hissing disapproval. His heart racing, Bennett turned the page over. It had been used as printer paper.<\/p>\n He couldn\u2019t help but read out loud: \u201c\u2019Does the pleasure of releasing an inhibited gust of malice make the effort, or the satisfaction, worth more than it costs?\u2019 Ellen G., 1944.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat is this?\u201d<\/p>\n Scene 6<\/p>\n Bennett sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. He stared at the screen.<\/p>\n \u201cI have no idea what this is about.\u201d<\/p>\n His internet query had landed him in an early 20th-century literary quarrel, between writers of some standing in Richmond, Virginia. Their friendship was fragile and questionable, their barbs occasional but intense, and\u00a0 the whole to-do filled with exceptional linguistic gymnastics. Was it some kind of game?<\/p>\n He bookmarked the most informative search result, putting it in a folder titled Glasgow Cabell. Perhaps more pages were to come.<\/p>\n If only sleep would do the same.<\/p>\n Scene 7<\/p>\n Evie gracefully but grudgingly navigated the wheezing of the espresso machine. She worked the rhythm of her latest poem around the clink of coffee cups.<\/p>\n Sun comes late<\/em><\/p>\n Stumbling blocks<\/em><\/p>\n Mountains<\/em><\/p>\n The search of therapeutic waters<\/em><\/p>\n Hovering pacifically<\/em><\/p>\n To think, perhaps<\/em><\/p>\n A bath, drawn cold<\/em><\/p>\n Trembling to test the waters, just the surface<\/em><\/p>\n To produce a work is not to simmer<\/em><\/p>\n Waiting but not hesitating<\/em><\/p>\n Diving on the horizon<\/em><\/p>\n She surveyed the faces around the table, gauging each person\u2019s response. She noted confusion, appreciation, pretense, and disdain. She considered it another win.<\/p>\n Martin spoke first. \u201cMay I ask, what is your approach and purpose in writing poetry? I find your work utterly confusing and self-indulgent.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, I can see that,\u201d Evie replied, relishing the potential for manipulation which deciphering her work provided. \u201cI realize you take things literally, you want to understand the facts. Well, there are no facts. There are feelings, there are impressions, there are misunderstandings. But actually knowing something, well, that\u2019s not within reach. My poetry is designed to evoke your response, which I have just done. That\u2019s it, Martin. I wanted a response, and I\u2019ve gotten what I wanted.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut your words, your phrases are garbled, it seems. I really do wish to understand how you work and why. I mean, this is a writers\u2019 group, is it not? Where we share our writing and discuss the process and meaning, to see if we\u2019re coming across or missing the mark. So, please, a little assistance.\u201d<\/p>\n Evie scornfully looked into Martin\u2019s eyes. \u201cLook, it\u2019s not that big of a deal, but I can see you\u2019re struggling. So I\u2019ll take a cue from Gwen\u2019s hero and be very frank: I write what I really feel. But what I really feel is none of your business. So I go through a series of translations to obscure the meaning and the emotion, and out come other meanings and emotions.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA series of translations?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, I took this poem, for example, from English to Icelandic to Urdu to French, then back into English.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou speak Urdu?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, of course not! I use online translators.\u201d<\/p>\n Martin sat upright and opened his eyes wide. \u201cYou\u2019re not being serious. You\u2019re playing a game here. I thought this group \u2026 Instead, I\u2019m sitting here with a bunch of children playing with a magnetic poetry kit. You\u2019re getting a machine to write your poems.\u201d<\/p>\n Evie glared and spoke directly at Martin. \u201cOh, look, we have a purist in our midst. Martin, have you ever heard of \u00a0photography? It uses a machine\u2014called a camera\u2014to capture an image. The photographer, that\u2019s what they call the person using a camera, points it at something, adjusts a knob or two, then clicks a button. The art is in the framing, referred to as composition.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, don\u2019t patronize me, Evie, I know about photography.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, I\u2019m not finished, Martin,\u201d Evie said disdainfully. \u201cAfter the photographer captures the image, she may take it through multiple manipulations, sometimes while it\u2019s still in the camera, sometimes outside the camera. Each step of the way she\u2019s using machines, computers, tools of some type. She may dodge and burn a little\u2014you can look those terms up on your own time. But to keep a long story short, she uses machines, lots of them, and she learns to work with them.<\/p>\n \u201cSo, you might scorn my use of online translators, but you might also try to understand what I\u2019m doing. I make word choices based on the power or inadequacy of the translator I choose. Words sometimes drop out; others are wildly mistranslated, especially after the third or fourth iteration. I accept all those mistakes, for I\u2019ve solicited them. My use of these tools is like carving out a space in which unpredictability is a constant. I create unique statements. The art lies it letting them be. Do you object to that?\u201d<\/p>\n Martin stared with his mouth partially open, as if he were trying to form vowel sounds. Stu stepped into the gap.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s like Jimi Hendrix, man,\u201d he offered sympathetically to both Evie and Martin. \u201cHis use of backward tape wasn\u2019t just some gimmick. He composed with that in mind, creating solos so that they would sound a certain way in the final recording. He made crazy, wild masterpieces, not like any other guitarist.<\/p>\n \u201cSo, Martin, my man,\u201d continued Stu, \u201cEvie\u2019s got her thorns, but she\u2019s also got a point. It\u2019s hard to define art, so just let it talk to you. Listen. Maybe her method blows your mind, or offends your formality, or just doesn\u2019t speak your lingo. But just relax, dude. She\u2019s no threat to your syntax. I will add that her poems are much better in the original Klingon, though.\u201d<\/p>\n Martin looked around the group sheepishly. He felt awkward, on-the-spot, ridiculed, and agitated.<\/p>\n Bennett fidgeted nervously, aware that as his own anxiety had grown the past few weeks, so had that of the group in general. \u201cLet\u2019s all relax, folks,\u201d he echoed Stu. \u201cKurt, you feel like sharing some of your memoir with us tonight? Why not give Martin a short recap first.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSure,\u201d Kurt nodded with an uneasy smile. \u201cSo Martin, my current project is a memoir of my time as roadie and chief lyricist for an Appalachian punk band, Black Lunge. I hope you enjoy it, but mostly, I want your feedback. That\u2019s, uh, what we\u2019re here for, you know?\u201d<\/p>\n That night we played an underground club in Brooklyn. Hank was ill\u2014his respiratory symptoms had sidelined him three nights so far on this East Coast tour. I went on as the singer, our typical arrangement when he\u2019s down. Our fans have always loved it. It\u2019s like I\u2019m the secret weapon, and they come to the gigs wondering if there\u2019ll be a sighting. We and they thrive on this chaos, this unpredictability. It\u2019s real.<\/em><\/p>\n I enjoy it, but it\u2019s a lark for me, not a passion. The band gets into it because of the thrill of change. Hank loves it too, for he gets to watch his favorite band from the side of the stage. He knows I\u2019m no threat to his position.<\/em><\/p>\n We had chosen this show to debut our stinging cover of Canary in a Coal Mine. Long offended by the song which reduced our lives to a danceable simile, I relished the thought of throwing it back at the world as an anthem of hard truth and defiance. I had rewritten the verses, each one citing symptoms from diseases we had been immersed in all our lives: CWP and silicosis, COPD, emphysema, fibrosis.<\/em><\/p>\n We play it hard ska, and I sing it like Dwight Yoakam on meth, and we have to lower it a key or two to match my range. As I growled the lyrics into the mike, I watched the realization hit the crowd: they\u2019re watching and hearing the actual canaries in the coal mines: the five of us, our fathers, brothers, uncles and friends, we\u2019re the canaries every day, and while we don\u2019t want to die, we also don\u2019t flinch.<\/em><\/p>\n Gig over, we lugged our gear back into the van. I tightened the roof rack bolts again, hoping the rust would hold until we got back to Harlan. I double-padlocked the doors, and parked in the economy garage near our hotel.<\/em><\/p>\n Hank turned in for the night. Skeeter, Will, and Darrell suggested we take the subway to Times Square and do a little sightseeing. It\u2019s a town that never sleeps, the old song goes, so I agreed to go with them. Standing there, in the Great White Way, the Crossroads of the World, in the middle of 33 square miles of 24\/7 nonstop lights, awash in neon, incandescent, and fluorescent luminescence, my inner core retched and recoiled. This is where the fruits of our labor were devoured. This is why Grandpa Tommy died. The world celebrates while we cannot breathe. They drink wine and spirits while we have not one drop of potable water. They dance while we shake.<\/em><\/p>\n Resentment is a low and mean feeling, and I can\u2019t describe all I felt in the midst of all that illumination. Maybe it was resentment, maybe it was just full-throated anger, intense, visceral, and motivating. I went back to my hotel room and began writing the songs that would become our next album, The Fires of New York.<\/em><\/p>\n We had the right to scream. We paid for it with our mountaintops.<\/em><\/p>\n Silence enshrouded the group. Sniffles slowly emerged, as did sympathetic sighs. Evie spoke first.<\/p>\n \u201cThank you, Kurt. I simply have no words. Your story, your wording, your imagery\u2026you put me there in that place with you. You make me angry, sad, motivated. You move me to action.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s what I\u2019m hoping for,\u201d Kurt replied. \u201cOn a large scale.\u201d<\/p>\n After Kurt, Gwen read more from Frank the Very Frank Chipmunk<\/em>. As closing time drew near, Martin was the only writer yet to read.<\/p>\n \u201cMartin, we have a few more minutes,\u201d Bennett said, opening his hands invitingly. \u201cHow you feeling? Want to give us a little something, an excerpt that will help us get better acquainted with what you do? I\u2019ve told them a lot about your writing and its qualities. So, have anything for us?\u201d<\/p>\n Martin was hoping the clock would run out tonight, that with all the discussion about poetry and music and salacious tales from the road, there would be no time for him to read. He could offer a patented but insincere apology, shake hands, tell everyone what a great time he\u2019d had, thank them for helping him understand their work, and then never come back again. But miraculously, there were fifteen minutes left till close.<\/p>\n \u201cWell,\u201d he began slowly. \u201cI suppose I could read something.\u201d He fumbled in his bag, delaying a few seconds, killing time. Feeling the stares of the group, he pulled out some crisp and newly-printed pages in a manilla folder. He laid the folder on the table, and carefully flipped it open. He lifted the first page. \u201cThis, yes, this.\u201d<\/p>\n He took a sip of his water and gently cleared his throat. \u201cThis is still in progress, of course.\u201d<\/p>\n Tristan marveled at how it fit his hand. The cold steel contours mirrored, as if in 3-D, the lines in his hands, projecting his lifeline into the great unknown. He appreciated the crisp, elegant, and precise engineering which could create such a masterpiece of economy and utility. He particularly admired the polished nickel plate, reflecting as it were his intentions. This machine always did what was asked of it. A simple movement of the hand\u2014a finger, even\u2014could release the lock or charge the barrel. It was made to open doors, he considered, and to close them decisively as well. Where opportunity might have been denied, it could create a new chance. It enabled passage through walls, and this thought caused him to hesitate, to ponder for a moment the fact that we build walls only to create an accompanying means of egress. In an instant, one\u2019s whole life could change by using this simple machine.<\/em><\/p>\n It is one of the truly ambidextrous machines, he thought. He switched hands: there it was, that comfortable grip, the sense of empowerment, the absence of surcharge because he was left-handed. Because he was <\/em>sinistro, a linguistic bias that expressed itself in surcharge after surcharge on normal every day goods. The social bias reflected in how things were designed: the circular saw, scissors, those abominable butter knives, the brace and bit, the weedeater. Clockwise means circling to the right; to go left is to be counter, against the majority, contrary, inconvenient, a problem.<\/em><\/p>\n Out of curiosity, he had traced the serial number to identify the foundry that had cast the steel. It was in New Zealand, which surprised him a little. He had expected it to be from Germany\u2014there\u2019s bias again, running in his notion that precision machine-making was solely a Bavarian trait. It had been assembled in the United States, another example of global trade and intricate multi-national cooperation. Having thoroughly researched globalization, he knew the current manifestation was just an extension of humans\u2019 ancient desire to have something from somewhere else, to own a piece of the exotic. It had degraded from spices and caffeine and aromatics\u2014things which can enhance one\u2019s pleasure and develop the senses\u2014to things as mundane as toothpicks and door knobs. Once it was the urge to indulge; now it was the urge to bypass labor law and evade scrutiny. To have explosive power. He glanced at the floor on which he was standing, the rich hue and patina of teak, felled in a forest before the worldwide ban, and he marveled at why someone in that forest would ever sell its wood to begin with. That first transaction led to displacement of other natural resources, to the exploitation of workers, to the manipulation of markets and the cultivation of desire among consumers. Colonization as a defining force and modeling medium: it was all there at his fingertips.<\/em><\/p>\n He was holding freedom or captivity in the palm of his hand: in the palm of his hand! Just think of it: though produced in mass quantities, this iteration still fit into his hand as if it were made solely for him to use. Such violence and trespass, mass-produced yet particular. He stood there a minute longer, maybe 10, maybe 20, considering the pros and cons of taking this step. There would be no undoing it. Then, with all the purpose within his soul, he wrapped his fingers comfortably but resolutely around the mighty cast metal, and engaged. It was like an epiphany: the sudden flash of light, the smell of newly mown grass, the dry rustle of newsprint.<\/em><\/p>\n Martin languorously dropped the page back into its folder. He paused slightly before looking around the dead-silent table.<\/p>\n Lance shifted in his seat. Kurt stared, wide-eyed, at the tabletop. Gwen continued her doodling, not bothering to disguise it.<\/p>\n Evie spoke first, in a sigh that betrayed relief. \u201cI though he\u2019d never pull the trigger.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPull the trigger?\u201d Martin asked, a little confused.<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, that\u2019s a revolver he\u2019s holding, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo, it is manifestly not a revolver,\u201d Martin replied with chilly defiance. \u201cIt\u2019s a door knob.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cA door knob?\u201d Stu snorted. \u201cSeriously, dude, a door knob?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes,\u201d Martin adjusted his posture, sitting more erectly. He seemed to be summoning his self-respect. \u201cHe\u2019s going out to get the paper.\u201d<\/p>\n Gwen stopped her doodling and looked at a distant discount sign. \u201cWell, I will commend you on having no head-hopping. That\u2019s refreshing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYep, definitely none of that!\u201d Lance agreed. \u201cHey, Bennett, you still here? What do you think of Martin\u2019s reading? He\u2019s here for feedback.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, Martin, that was really something. But, my old friend, I have to go back to two words we\u2019ve exchanged over the years: word count. You could reduce this by half and have greater impact. Just telling it like I see it. That being said, I\u2019ll never look at a handgun the same way again. And look here, it\u2019s closing time!\u201d<\/p>\n His comments were followed by a flurry of journals being shoved into backpacks, the sound of scraping chairs, and hasty goodbyes.<\/p>\n Scene 8<\/p>\n The green banker\u2019s lamp valiantly struggled against the moonless night. Its guided light shone downward, playing a shadow game across a scarred and creased piece of paper.<\/p>\n Next to the paper, nimble and agitated fingers provoked a keyboard. The mouse pointer stabbed its way through browser tabs, choosing, through elimination, the perfect expression of poisonous rivalry.<\/p>\n \u201cThis one,\u201d he whispered to himself. He felt his scowl escape through a sinister sigh.<\/p>\n Grabbing the paper, he ran it back and forth over the edge of the desk, working out the most pernicious kink. Placing it in the feed tray of his antiquated printer, he victoriously clicked the print icon. The paper\u2019s rugged terrain warped the words rather elegantly, he noticed.<\/p>\n Scene 9<\/p>\n \u201cOh, that\u2019s a great read!\u201d Bennett complimented a customer as he rang up her purchase. \u201cI couldn\u2019t put this one down. I finished it in one good weekend day. I think you\u2019ll enjoy it!\u201d<\/p>\n The transaction being completed, he moved to the restock shelf behind him. It looked so paltry compared to the cart! This would only take minutes to reshelve, then he could get back to closing duties.<\/p>\n He grabbed an armful of books and turned quickly towards the floor. The books scattered as his sneakers caught on the carpet.<\/p>\n \u201cDamn!\u201d he said perhaps a little too loudly. \u201cThis was supposed to be an easy one!\u201d<\/p>\n He gathered the books into a stack, and that\u2019s when he saw it. He felt himself shudder.<\/p>\n It was another blank journal with a scrap of page flapping out the top like a flag of surrender.<\/p>\n Bennett picked it up slowly and pulled out the page. It was another of his, from his lost journal. He noted that it was non-sequential with the previous page. Whoever was doing this had his entire journal and was feeding it back to him in random bites.<\/p>\n He turned the page to its backside. He\u2019d only ever used the front side of a page. The back was reserved for edits, notes to self, plot development, and other writing direction. In the center, horizontally and vertically, of this crumpled paper landscape was another quote:<\/p>\n This is a load of rubbish, really. I take the mickey out of myself on the piano and play stuff like this. I think they know it’s not that good. —\u00a0 Ray D., 1967<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cWhat the hell is going on here?\u201d he said as he stared at the page, shaking in his hands. He stood, folded the page in fourths, and stuck it in his back pocket. He noted the time and date, in case that should prove important some day. With his mind circling and reeling, he restocked the small pile of books and left as quickly as his duties would allow.<\/p>\n Arriving home, Bennett practically ran for his computer. Entering the entire quote into his search bar, he was presented with numerous links to an album review from 1967, Disc and Music Echo Magazine,\u201d Ray Davies Reviews the Beatles LP.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat does this have to do with me?\u201d he wondered aloud.<\/p>\n Scene 10<\/p>\n The following Wednesday, the dedicated band of writers gathered in the coffee bar at Mille-feuille Books. Claiming their favorite chairs, they ordered coffee, took out journals and pens, and said their hellos.<\/p>\n \u201cHey, Bennett, how do you and Martin know each other?\u201d Lance asked while stirring his cappuccino. \u201cY\u2019all seem pretty familiar with each other\u2019s style and focus.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, we met at a writers\u2019 seminar maybe eight years ago,\u201d Bennett replied. \u201cWe were sitting at the same table during a break between sessions. I was scarfing down a muffin as he was cramming in some research. I just asked what he was looking up so hard. The rest is history, as they say.<\/p>\n \u201cI will add that he knows just about everything. Arcane stuff, like studio dates played by a session man in the 1960s, the dangers posed by space junk, how much Chinese tea was traded for a Tibetan war horse, on and on. I\u2019d count on him to find the most salient point for any situation you can imagine.\u201d<\/p>\n Evie shook her head and smirked slightly. \u201cResearch, okay, but art\u2026I wonder. He has his particulars, as do I, but wouldn\u2019t he be more at home at a tech writers\u2019 meetup, or a MENSA convention?\u201d<\/p>\n Bennett frowned and waved a hand. \u201cOkay, take it easy, Evie. He\u2019s struggling like the rest of us. He just does it more precisely, shall we say.\u201d<\/p>\n As if on cue, Martin approached the table and placed his hand on the last open seat. \u201cHello, everyone. I hope you don\u2019t mind my attending again tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSuch precise grammar,\u201d Evie said as she removed the tea infuser from her cup and clanked it onto a saucer.<\/p>\n Gwen offered Martin a welcoming smile. \u201cWe were just talking about how you and Bennett know each other. So, what\u2019s your side of the story?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI met Bennett at a writers\u2019 conference, as I\u2019m sure he mentioned. Setting that aside, I\u2019ll say that I have never met anyone who can write with such alacrity\u2014and quality\u2014as he does. The words simply flow, coherently, artfully, compellingly\u2026and it all seems to come with such ease. I\u2019ll not diminish how hard he works at it. He just makes it seem easy. I\u2019d be bitter and envious if I didn\u2019t respect him so much.<\/p>\n \u201cI guess it\u2019s a writers\u2019 bond, a connection that doesn\u2019t really make sense or is easily explainable. We\u2019re a bit like Mailer and Vidal: friends at the top and rivals down below.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWho?\u201d asked Gwen.<\/p>\n \u201cThat is perhaps deeper than I\u2019d go in public,\u201d Bennett responded with a curious tone. \u201cBut hey, it\u2019s time to start! Who wants to read first?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy not you, Bennett?\u201d suggested Kurt. \u201cYou haven\u2019t read in a while. What\u2019s the deal?\u201d<\/p>\n Bennett shrugged with a helpless look on his face. \u201cMy journal is still at large. I\u2019m trying to piece the story back together, one painful fragment at a time. So far, all I have is a shattered image of what I was working on, not to be too dramatic!\u201d His attempt at upbeat ended on a downbeat, the tone of his voice betraying his projected calm.<\/p>\n \u201cI know you\u2019re not too happy about your missing journal, but you still speak in such a rich way. I can feel your pain, man,\u201d offered Stu, consolingly. \u201cSo, maybe Evie goes first? What do you have for us tonight, poet extraordinaire?\u201d<\/p>\n Evie smirked at Stu. \u201cSuch elegant praise, Stu. I don\u2019t know how I\u2019ll be able to manage it. But I\u2019ll try. Here\u2019s something I\u2019m still trying to translate into its final form. I\u2019m happy with it and yet, you know me, I\u2019m not happy with it. Please hold your applause.<\/p>\n Windy night<\/em><\/p>\n Windy thoughts<\/em><\/p>\n What is the wind, if not the thought of a restless roar?<\/em><\/p>\n They all come to night to look for the attention of the abandoned on quiet evenings.<\/em><\/p>\n Like the wind, they don’t know<\/em><\/p>\n Unsatisfactory results:<\/em><\/p>\n Your only consolation<\/em><\/p>\n Is to interrupt your dream of riding on the tail of the wind<\/em><\/p>\n To pull another corner,<\/em><\/p>\n And wait for the next windy night.<\/em><\/p>\n The group held its silence for a moment or two, savoring Evie\u2019s construction of meaningful phrases and dada expression. Kurt spoke first.<\/p>\n \u201c\u2019Interrupt your dream of riding on the tail of the wind\u2019\u2026\u2019the thought of a restless roar\u2019\u2026Evie, that is magnificent! I wish I\u2019d have come up with that back in the day. Don\u2019t we all dream of being at the mercy of a powerful, natural force, holding on for dear life and yet, hoping we can just survive? I know I\u2019ve felt that way. I want to know what your original line was, how you provoked such a translation, and then again, I don\u2019t want to know, I just want to let it sink into me. Thanks for reading that.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd thank you,\u201d she replied with sincere gratitude. \u201cYour opinion really matters to me, Kurt. I think we have shared some experiences and mindspace along the way. Anyone else? What do you think?\u201d<\/p>\n Through the next two hours, others read and offered their candid comments. Martin chose to go last again, measuring his luck on running out of time, diverting attention, and extending discussions of others\u2019 work.<\/p>\n As the end of the meeting neared, he pulled out a stapled folio. He decided, upon scanning it quickly, not to read. Evie noted that it was printed in blue ink.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy the blue ink, Martin? Is that a preference of yours, or is your printer just a bit sad right now?\u201d<\/p>\n He fumbled with the papers and flipped through them as if he wasn\u2019t sure what was printed there. \u201cMy printer is out of black ink, that\u2019s all. So rather than purchase a new black ink cartridge while the color one sits idle, I\u2019ve decided to expend all its ink, too. I chose blue this time. I could have printed in magenta or yellow, but you know yellow is difficult to read.<\/p>\n \u201cSome manufacturers use only two cartridges, black and a combined CYM. Others employ four cartridges, one black, one cyan, one yellow, and finally, one which is magenta. I do not have one of those printers. Which means, therefore, that I must either purchase a new cartridge in order to have the full spectrum\u2014and therefore waste the other inks which might still be relatively full\u2014or work my way through each color individually to drain the cartridge completely. I find waste abhorrent. I\u2019ll print in yellow if I must.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTell me, Martin,\u201d Evie said, without a hint of sarcasm or guile. \u201cJust what is your current work about?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI appreciate your interest,\u201d Martin replied, with a touch of pride. \u201cIt\u2019s an extrapolation of the Socratic method, the twenty questions exercises. I postulate that within your lifespan, there are only twenty things that you must know. You will learn these from twenty different people at random points in your life. Whether your interaction with someone is 20 seconds or 20 years, you might ask them only one question of import. You cannot predict the people or the individual cognitive artifacts. But once you learn the twentieth item, all of your life clicks into place and makes perfect sense. It\u2019s a complex, living, multi-dimensional puzzle which suddenly appears when the final piece is in place.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh. Wow,\u201d she replied, with a distant gaze and tone. \u201cThat\u2019s actually pretty amazing. Do you consider it a work of fiction, or non-fiction? Like, is this autobiographical in some way?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s a hybrid, of course,\u201d he answered matter-of-factly. \u201cI am telling my personal experiences, but extending them beyond myself in an exercise in self-awareness, actualization, experience, and classical story-telling, one might say.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOne might,\u201d Evie nodded with raised eyebrows. \u201cWho\u2019s next?\u201d<\/p>\n Scene 11<\/p>\n The week passed quickly, and soon the group found themselves together again. Each one had wished for just one more day to get their text perfected before sharing it with their friends. But Wednesday came on schedule, indifferent to their needs, as it had always done. After the routine greetings and settling in, Bennett spoke to the group.<\/p>\n \u201cHey, guys, I have to let you know that I believe my journal was stolen. I\u2019ve been getting clues\u2026random notes showing up that make me think I am being targeted. More on that later, but for now, just keep your eyes on your things and let\u2019s not leave the table unattended. I should have followed this protocol from the beginning. Since I\u2019m the group\u2019s Mille-feuille sponsor, it\u2019s all my responsibility. If we all need a break, I\u2019ll stick around till one of you comes back. I\u2019m just glad it wasn\u2019t any of you who had something stolen.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSeriously?\u201d asked Stu. \u201cWho would steal a dude\u2019s comp book? That\u2019s just low-down mean.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s not make a big deal of it yet. I hope to get it back somehow. I just need to figure out who has it and why. Like that\u2019s an easy order!<\/p>\n \u201cBut in the meantime, I do have something to read!\u201d<\/p>\n Seeing the excited faces around the table made Bennett happy. \u201cOkay, this is really just a fragment, an exercise to keep me going. I was inspired by our meeting a couple of weeks ago. Let that stand without any explanation, and just enjoy the scene.<\/p>\n \u201cSo when does someone get it?\u201d Bill asked. He strained to keep the impatience out of his voice.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you mean, \u2018get it\u2019?\u201d Ken responded, irritated that Bill would interrupt him as he read aloud his manuscript. The other writers abruptly and nervously studied the variations in the carpet pile.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cI mean, get it, like kapow! Right-in-the-kisser kind of stuff, or maybe a good overall thrashing. Where\u2019s the hook, that\u2019s what I\u2019m asking. What makes me want to endure all your endless dialog? Give me some action, Ken! Get your characters off their soapboxes for a change, will ya? All they ever do is blah blah blah\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n Bennett paused for a moment, seeing that Martin had approached the table. \u201cHave a seat, Martin. I\u2019m just reading a small scene I wrote for fun. Let\u2019s see, I was here, Bill was saying to Ken:<\/p>\n \u201cGet your characters off their soapboxes for a change, will ya? All they ever do is blah blah blah\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n He was right. In all the time Bill had been attending the writers\u2019 circle, all Ken had done was use his characters to spew his own philosophical arguments. It was even difficult tell if there was a plot sometimes. All the quotation marks stapling the story together left plenty of gaps for the plot to leak out.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cBill, look, we\u2019ve gone over this before. I don\u2019t write that kind of stuff, you know that,\u201d Ken offered almost apologetically.<\/em><\/p>\n Bill threw up his hands and shrugged his shoulders. \u201cWell, I\u2019m tired of hearing what your characters think. I spend all my time wondering if they\u2019re ever going to really do something.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cSo what do you want them to do, Bill? Come on, I can\u2019t just have someone get blasted during the middle of a conversation\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cThen can the conversation,\u201d Bill offered rather plainly. \u201cPlease, just for once, let someone have it!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cYou say that like it\u2019s easy to do. Then what happens to the point of my story, huh? It\u2019ll change the whole thing. I don\u2019t even have a violent character in the piece, so who\u2019s going to \u2018kapow\u2019 whom?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n A few coughs around the circle suggested it was time to move on. Neither Ken nor Bill were ready to relinquish the argument, however. More than one of the listeners secretly wished Bill would just let Ken \u2018have it,\u2019 or vice versa. Can the conversation and do something.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cThen create a violent character,\u201d Bill directed in frustration. \u201cOr have a stray bullet come through the window, drop a safe off a ledge, something, anything, just cream someone for crying out loud! If you can\u2019t figure it out, I\u2019ll show you.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n Bill rose from his seat and took a step toward Ken.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cOh, what are you going to do, come over and\u2026\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n Bill was already inches from Ken before he got the question out of his mouth. The other attendees watched and listened in amusement. Some swore they heard a distinct \u2018kapow,\u2019 while others testified to just a \u2018pow.\u2019 One described it as a \u2018crunch,\u2019 and still another as a simple \u2018blam.\u2019 They were unanimous, however, about Ken hitting the floor with a \u2018thud.\u2019<\/em><\/p>\n Laughter erupted around the table, but subsided quickly when it was clear that Martin wasn\u2019t laughing.<\/p>\n Scene 12<\/p>\n \u201cIt was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents\u2014except at occasional intervals,\u201d he said to himself. \u201cOh, Edward, you are certainly vindicated tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n He stood at the window watching the storm. Lightning played in the gaps between the upright, stiff, stodgy buildings of downtown. One force was energetic and fluid, the other rigid and unmovable. He knew where he stood in that contrast. He was as solid as a cornerstone.<\/p>\n \u201cNow, what\u2019s the appropriate message to convey at this moment? It\u2019s been a fortnight, so maybe a strong statement is in order. Hmmmm\u2026.\u201d He turned towards his desk and clicked on the lamp.<\/p>\n He chuckled as he sorted through the artifacts he\u2019d collected. What comparison had he himself recently made?<\/p>\n \u201cOh, here it is. Yes, certainly, this.\u201d<\/p>\n A few keystrokes and mouse-clicks engaged the printer. The paper, elegantly violated, distorted the words in the most amusing way.<\/p>\n He tucked the paper into his satchel, clicked off the lamp, and called it a good night.<\/p>\n Scene 13<\/p>\n Bennett had found this one in a nook, one of the many Mille-feuille provided for its customers. An overstuffed chair, a lamp, a small table, just how an avid reader might outfit a favorite corner in their reading room at home. All that was missing was a fireplace\u2014and a complete journal. For there, tucked inside a Moleskine, was another single distressed page. Ripped edges, crumpled countenance, provocative editing, and a helpful hint printed on the back. A real cozy little nook, this one, he thought.<\/p>\n He had begun dreading the nightly sweeps through the store to find abandoned books. Anxiety gripped him any time he spotted a journal out of place. Sure, most of the time it was only that, a journal that someone decided against buying, and had just laid on the nearest shelf or table. But those times when the journal contained a page ripped from his own, now that\u2019s when his heart raced and his breath became shallow.<\/p>\n He folded this one and put it into his pocket as he done the last one, knowing that reading it would make it impossible for him to focus on work.<\/p>\n Once home, he quickly shed his messenger bag, windbreaker, and sneakers. He sat down in front of his computer, pulled out the page, unfolded it, and read aloud.<\/p>\n \u201cYou see, punching is a species of inspiration, when all is said. So, I was warming up, and I wasn’t getting there. I had a heavy tumbler in my hand and it was filled with ice cubes and drink, and I threw the drink into his face and then bounced this heavy tumbler off his head. And that was what he thought was the punch. He spoke later, with his wonderful wit, of, \u2018I saw this tiny fist coming at me.\u2019 It was in fact an ice cube.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cThis just gets more strange,\u201d Bennett shook his head. \u201cI don\u2019t know if someone is threatening me or trying to entertain me. I just want this to be over.\u201d<\/p>\n He lay the page on his desk and sat silently for a few minutes. He resisted the urge to do an internet search. He could look it up in the morning.<\/p>\n Scene 14<\/p>\n In the morning, Bennett made his coffee and poured a bowl of granola. He flipped through the news on his phone as he ate, trying to ignore the page which taunted him from a few paces away. Finishing breakfast, he washed his dishes and dried his hands. Finally he made his way to the desk.<\/p>\n It was a bright morning, and light came in generously through the picture window behind his computer. It gracefully illuminated the worn and weary page, playing light against shadow as it crossed the creases. Then he saw it.<\/p>\n \u201cThis is blue ink.\u201d<\/p>\n Scene 15<\/p>\n \u201cAny of you guys know who Ray Davies is?\u201d Bennett asked the group as they got settled in for the week\u2019s meeting. \u201cGwen, what about you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNope, never heard of him,\u201d she replied as she raised her latte for a drink.<\/p>\n \u201cEvie, what about you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe name sounds familiar, but I can\u2019t think of anything I actually know about him. Who is he?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cStu?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, man, of course!\u201d Stu said enthusiastically. \u201cGreat songwriter, great social critic, even greater cranky old man.\u201d He looked at the younger members of the group. \u201cGwen, Evie, you guys and Lance may not know much of the Kinks\u2019 music, but he was their frontman and chief songwriter. Far more than you\u2019d know by You Really Got Me<\/em>, literate kind of guy. Just ask Kurt when he gets back. Why do you ask, Bennett?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI came across a curious item the other day,\u201d he began explaining just as Martin walked up and took a seat. \u201cMartin, you know Ray Davies, right?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, I certainly know of him. Brilliant man, somewhat skewed in his view of the world, and perhaps bitter in his outlook. He\u2019s very competitive, perhaps more than a little tormented, and positively beastly towards his brother. Why the question, Bennett?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI was just about to share this thing I read a few days ago,\u201d Bennett said as he raised up a page printed from the internet. \u201cBack in 1967, he wrote a review of the Beatles\u2019 Revolver<\/em> album. He wasn\u2019t too impressed, apparently.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot impressed by the Beatles?\u201d asked Evie. \u201cI like this guy already. Off the main stream.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, that\u2019s for sure,\u201d agreed Stu. \u201cBut what did he say, Bennett? I\u2019m sure he had some choice tidbits, man.\u201d He waved at Kurt, returning from the coffee bar. \u201cHey, Kurt, we\u2019re talkin\u2019 Ray Davies.\u201d<\/p>\n Bennett continued. \u201cYes, to good tidbits. Here\u2019s one: \u2018It sounds like a cross between the Who and Batman.\u2019 That was his opinion of Taxman<\/em>. Here\u2019s another: \u2018it sounds like they’re out to please music teachers in primary schools.\u2019 Any guesses on the song?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo idea, here,\u201d replied Stu, glancing at Kurt.<\/p>\n Kurt paused a moment as if going through the record\u2019s track listing. \u201cI don\u2019t know, Good Day Sunshine<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n Martin set down his tea and raised his hand. Bennett nodded at him. \u201cEleanor Rigby<\/em>, I\u2019d guess.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCorrect, Martin! Here\u2019s just one more, then we can get on with our meeting. \u2018I can imagine they had George Martin tied to a totem pole when they did this.\u2019 Anyone?\u201d<\/p>\n Martin cleared his throat. \u201cTomorrow Never Knows<\/em>,\u201d he said dryly.<\/p>\n Bennett smiled. \u201cCorrect again, Martin! You win this round of why-are-we-doing-this!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo, not to ask the obvious, but, hey, Bennett, why are we doing this?\u201d asked Stu. \u201cIs this your contribution tonight, an old album review by one of the greatest rockers ever? I mean, Davies is cool but he\u2019s not exactly writing stories like you do.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThanks for the compliment, Stu! Well, I came across it and it made me wonder about rivalries and animosities that rise between artists. Why do they waste their time on torpedoing each other? There\u2019s a lot of room out there for what each of us is doing, and we don\u2019t need to be making it rougher on each other.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIs this somehow about your missing journal?\u201d asked Kurt. \u201cYou think someone took it out of jealousy? Do you have a single enemy in this world? You\u2019re about the menschiest mensch I\u2019ve ever met.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, I don\u2019t know,\u201d replied Bennett, his eyebrows arched highly. \u201cI just wonder. I saw today that The Monkeypaw Journal was accepting submissions for their annual anthology. They have a \u2018message in a bottle\u2019 theme for next year, and since my story concerns an urgent missive on a microchip, it seems like a fit. But there\u2019s no way I\u2019ll make their deadline now!\u201d<\/p>\n Gwen nodded and asked, \u201cDidn\u2019t they feature you in a short story special? They called you something like \u2018most promising newcomer?\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, that was embarrassing,\u201d Bennett replied demurely. \u201cMartin, didn\u2019t you submit a piece to them as well?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes,\u201d Martin answered dourly.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, how did it go?\u201d Bennett followed up.<\/p>\n \u201cRejection, that\u2019s how,\u201d Martin said, with a curt clip in his voice.<\/p>\n Bennett frowned sympathetically. \u201cI\u2019m sorry to hear that. Rejection is tough. Remind me what the piece was about?\u201d<\/p>\n Martin sighed impatiently. \u201cIt was an exposition of the sonata form and its relation to modern-day pop musical structure. Their rejection has prompted me to reassess their intelligence and aesthetic values. Be that as it may, let\u2019s get back to matters at hand.\u201d He looked at Bennett with a sardonic grin. \u201cMy friend, you are getting a glimpse of why I enjoy research so much.\u201d<\/p>\n Bennett cocked his head and pursed his lips. \u201cAnd why is that, Martin?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know what caused you to look into Mr. Davies\u2019 opinion of the Beatles, but just think of what you\u2019ve discovered. Adoration of their work wasn\u2019t universal, but you\u2019d not know that now that they\u2019ve been enshrined as the greatest pop music group in modern history. Perhaps this will lead you to research other contemporary critiques. You\u2019ve also learned that one great artist might be jealous of the accolades received by another, or envious of the relative ease with which they create their work. It can be difficult to balance one\u2019s brilliance on one hand and one\u2019s spite on the other. And of course, you see that artists can not always be believed or trusted.\u201d<\/p>\n Bennett tossed the paper down onto the table. \u201cYeah, it\u2019s fun knowing so many facts, Martin,\u201d he said sarcastically. \u201cMost of which I\u2019d consider useless.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFacts are never useless,\u201d Martin pushed back.<\/p>\n Bennett waved his hand to brush aside Martin\u2019s opinion. \u201cAs for jealousies, the type that\u2019d cause someone to attack another artist, any of you guys ever experienced this yourselves?\u201d Bennett scanned the table. Several members shifted in their seats or shuffled their papers designedly. He continued.<\/p>\n \u201cOrwell claimed that he wrote out of plain ol\u2019 egotism. Richler claims writers have a huge appetite for revenge against even imaginary slights. Bourjaily\u2014he was a playwright, columnist, instructor\u2014said that feuding is what writers do to avoid writing.\u201d<\/p>\n Evie rolled her eyes at Bennett. \u201cSpeaking of avoidance\u2026are we going to read tonight, Bennett?\u201d she asked, with an antsy edge to her voice.<\/p>\n Bennett ignored her question and persisted. \u201cThen there\u2019s Norman Mailer, man, he hated just about every one of his peers. He really had it out for Gore Vidal. He\u2019d beat him up at parties and stuff. Vidal once talked about seeing a tiny fist coming at him\u2014he was obviously mocking Mailer\u2019s stature. Mailer, for his part, said it wasn\u2019t his fist, but an ice cube from his drink. I mean, this is crazy stuff!\u201d<\/p>\n He noted that no one in the group was listening but Martin, so he focused on him alone.<\/p>\n \u201cMartin, no doubt you know about this? About Mailer and his outbursts? I think you mentioned it a few weeks ago, right here. You know, writers taking the mickey out of each other?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYellow Submarine<\/em>,\u201d Martin answered as he set down his tea. \u201cNow, shall we indulge in some good poetry? What have you translated for us tonight, Evie?\u201d<\/p>\n Scene 16<\/p>\n He paced the room in agitation, twisting his hands anxiously. Pausing at the window, he looked at the midnight streets a few stories down. It was a quiet night, except for in his mind.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s time to bring this story to a close,\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n It had become a ritual: smooth a journal page over the edge of the desk, place it, almost reverently, into the printer feed tray, click on \u2018print,\u2019 retrieve the paper, delight in the effects of the crinkles and creases. But he wasn\u2019t feeling delight this night. Somehow, it had gotten deeper into him, venomously feeding every cell of his body.<\/p>\n \u201cWhere\u2019s Alcott?\u201d he asked the computer.<\/p>\n He navigated to the files he\u2019d been curating the past several weeks and sorted them alphabetically. Opening a folder titled \u201cAlcott, L. M.,\u201d he double-clicked on \u201cThe Rival Prima Donnas<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s see if he can find this one,\u201d he laughed mockingly, as he printed the final scene on the back of a journal page. He admitted to himself that he did feel a shimmer of delight, reading the twisted text of an actress who kills her rival with an iron bludgeon. Even the planned stage production was derailed by rivalry: the leading actresses quarreled about who would kill whom.<\/p>\n \u201cBut why stop now?\u201d he asked himself as he looked up from the paper back into the night. Possessed by his own obsession, he snatched the journal and its loose pages from his desk drawer, ran them across the desk\u2019s edge one by one, shoved them all into the feed tray, and lost himself in a flurry of files, clicks, and printer icons. He was thankful for the new black cartridge.<\/p>\n He was not thankful, however, that he must wait until tomorrow to return Bennett\u2019s much-adored journal.<\/p>\n Scene 17<\/p>\n He waited for the \u201cwe\u2019ll be closing in five minutes\u201d announcement. He smiled when he heard it, in Bennett\u2019s voice. He tiptoed quietly through Travel, Ecojustice, and Cooking. He glided through Music and Performing Arts, and slipped into the restroom.<\/p>\n He\u2019d observed the closing routine dozens of times, taking notes on timing, routes, and other patterns. He knew that in nine minutes he could swiftly but easily move into the stockroom. There, he could leave the finished journal\u2014in pieces, of course.<\/p>\n As he waited in the restroom, he thought about how his comments would hit their mark. How each example from the larger artistic world would resonate with Bennett, would put him into his place, diminish his inflated certainty of himself.<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s really far too proud of his ability,\u201d he said to himself. \u201cWay too confident\u2014just look at how quickly he writes! You can\u2019t be a craftsman while in a rush. Way too impulsive. That whole \u2018beauty will be convulsive\u2019 idea\u2026how repugnant.\u201d<\/p>\n Once in the stockroom, he surveyed his options. He could leave the whole lot upon the worktable in the center of the room. Just lay the journal and its disgorged contents right by the dictionary. That would be ironic, would it not? To show an egotistical minimalist that words really do matter?<\/p>\n Or he could scatter them throughout the room. Strategically insert them into books in a pattern, yes, to categorize them into a larger and devastating puzzle. But that would take time that he didn\u2019t have. He hadn\u2019t the opportunity to stake out the stockroom and map out its methods and manners.<\/p>\n He had to go on intuition, which, he admitted, was not his strongest suit. Let\u2019s see, he thought, where might he look first?<\/p>\n Then he heard him coming. He crouched behind a book cart.<\/p>\n Bennett entered the room and called out: \u201cHello? Anyone in here? I heard some movement, so if you\u2019re in here, just identify yourself. No questions asked, no reports filed.\u201d<\/p>\n Martin kept his quiet. He needed time to make a plan. He needed Bennett to leave the stockroom for at least a few minutes. He shifted on his feet, unaccustomed to holding a crouched position. He lost his balance and dropped the journal on the floor. He knew he had to identify himself now.<\/p>\n He raised from his crouch. Only the worktable stood between them.<\/p>\n \u201cI came to give you back your journal,\u201d he said tersely. He held the stressed binding, bulging with ripped pages, aloft in Bennett\u2019s direction. \u201cIt\u2019s been a singular pleasure to have read your work before anyone else. Thank you for the honor, but I am quite done with it. I hope you don\u2019t mind that I\u2019ve added a few critical remarks and citations throughout. Maybe you\u2019d like to hear a line or two?\u201d<\/p>\n Martin opened the journal and thumbed the pages as though it were a kineograph. He pulled out a page. \u201cYes, this is a good one: \u2018The only thing you done was yesterday\/And since you’re gone you’re just another day.\u2019<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n Bennett winced and took a step towards Martin. \u201cI know that one\u2014it\u2019s John Lennon in How Do You Sleep<\/em>, a song aimed at his old friend and rival, Paul. Why are you doing this?\u201d<\/p>\n Martin scooted back a few feet, waving the journal in the air. \u201cLet me just select another one, at random. Oh, this is rich: \u2018Not only does this process of authorial colonization assert Jonson’s preeminence over a wide range of potential or actual literary rivals; it also aims to make those rivals virtually unreadable except in the terms imposed upon their work by Jonson himself.\u2019<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n He looked up at Bennett, watching for a reaction. Bennett appeared confused and weary. \u201cMaybe one of your fawning sycophants can look that one up for you. It\u2019s quite, shall we say, esoteric and arcane?\u201d<\/p>\n Bennett had had enough. \u201cSeriously, Martin, just give it all to me now. You\u2019ve done enough damage, you\u2019ve made your point. You\u2019re clearly not yourself right now. We\u2019ve been friends a long time, and I\u2019d like to keep it that way. But really, you need to stop this harassment. And you need to get out of the store before I have to call security. It won\u2019t be pretty if they come in here.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh, a threat!\u201d Martin grinned with madness in his eyes. \u201cLet\u2019s take a moment to hear another literary luminary assess your talent.\u201d He ran his index finger along the fanned pages and selected one. \u201cOkay, this one is exquisite. Do listen carefully\u2014it has a lot of words:<\/p>\n \u2018<\/em>A promising young writer. A promising young writer. A promising young writer. A promising young writer. A STEWPID LITTEL BOY WHO TRIES UNSUCCESSFULLY TO HIDE THE VACUITY AND TRITENESS AND SHEER ANALITY OF HIS IDEAS BY A TECKNEEK COPIED FROM OTHERS AND BADLY COPIED FROM BAD OTHERS. A promising young writer. A promising young writer. A SILLY DROOLING YOUNG SPERMICIDE. (‘Eh?’) A SILLY DROOLING YOUNG SPERMICIDE. (‘Oh.’)\u2019<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cI do wish you could see it. I\u2019ve taken it directly from the author\u2019s text, and it is full of purposeful misspellings and excessive capitalization. But hazard a guess. Who said that, about whom, and when?\u201d<\/p>\n Bennett stared at Martin and struggled to keep his anger from showing. \u201cMartin, look, this is enough,\u201d he said as he lunged around the corner of the worktable. \u201cJust give me my journal\u2014and get some help.\u201d<\/p>\n Martin eluded him swiftly with a condescending smirk. \u201cNuh-uh, not so quick, Bennett. That was Kingsley Amis, writing about Alan Ross in 1946.<\/p>\n \u201cYou say that I need help. Like an editor, is that the implication? You and your relentless mantra of word count, word count, word count. Do you realize how many words are in the English language? It should interest you to know that I also write fluently in Latin, German, and Spanish. Do you know how many words that is? Oh, look, here on the table is a dictionary: The Oxford Complete Dictionary of the English Language in One Volume<\/em>. Do you want to count the words? Now tell me, am I using too many?\u201d<\/p>\n Bennett was well beyond anger, firmly into exasperation and throttled rage. \u201cMartin, really, calm down. Use all the words you want. I just believe in the force of few words, that\u2019s all. We\u2019ve gone through this a hundred times. You elaborate, while I am a minimalist.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re a patronizing ass, that\u2019s what you are, Bennett!\u201d Martin flung Bennett\u2019s journal across the table, sending pages flying chaotically around the room.\u00a0 \u201cAll your patronizing advice! Do you know what patronizing means? How about bumptious? Ever heard of that word? Here, look it up!\u201d<\/p>\n Martin leapt up onto the worktable and grabbed the dictionary. He lifted but the book did not follow. \u201cDamn, did they leave some of the printing plates in this edition?\u201d<\/p>\n Bennett waved his arms and leaned against the table. \u201cThat\u2019s not what you think it is, Martin! Don\u2019t try to pick it up!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAgain, that peremptory attitude! I know a dictionary when I see one!\u201d Martin squatted over the book and gripped it tightly. With an audible grunt, he raised the book and heaved it above his head.<\/p>\n The room was filled with sound: of Martin falling to the floor; of coins breaking out of their paper tubes and scattering into every corner; of the book safe tumbling off the table, of Bennett\u2019s exclamations of warning and expressions of compassion for his troubled assailant.<\/p>\n Scene 18<\/p>\n The paramedics arrived punctually and carted the unconscious Martin to an ambulance. Bennett never broke stride as he swept coins out of every nook and cranny. Sweeping was very calming. Reach with the broom, pull the broom back, gather coins into a bucket. Repeat.<\/p>\n A police detective approached him. \u201cSo, I understand you\u2019ve known him for some time. What was your relationship to him?\u201d<\/p>\n Bennett paused in his movements and looked at the detective. \u201cWriters, we\u2019re both writers. We met at a conference. He is brilliant, but he is also quite wordy! I was always telling him to reduce his word count, to cut it by half or more. So when he grabbed the book safe with the change order, I thought \u2018now we\u2019re getting somewhere.\u2019 It has half the words he thinks it has. I always told him, never underestimate the force of fewer words. Reduce your word count and you\u2019ll be deadly.<\/p>\n \u201cHe acted as if using fewer words would kill him. It very nearly did. “<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Scene 1 \u201cTater, please, listen to me,\u201d she implored with a subterranean chill in her voice. She pushed an auburn forelock back into her bandana,…<\/p>\n