The Author 

He looked blankly at the flashing caret on the stark white background. Nothing behind it, nothing ahead of it. It was beautiful in a way. For a writer it was dreadful. For a publisher it was contract breaking. For him it was simply what it was. Common. And the truth. He hadn’t had an original idea ever. And now that it was expected of him he wanted to shout the truth at the top of his lungs. 

He was a phony. 

Maybe he could tell his girlfriend. Who knocked on the door of his office and told him she had made some fresh lemonade for him. They were taking a break from coffee. 

“Thank you!” He responded back. Still looking at the white word document on his skinny laptop and curling his fingers through his shabby beard. A fresh drink is what he needed. Maybe go for a walk. Get the blood pumping. He always had great ideas when he paced around. But when he held still he realized a story about chickens escaping a slaughter farm had been done before and it was only because he watched that same plot in a movie with his daughter that he had thought of it at all. 

God why did he quit his job to do this. He mostly watched youtube videos all day. You can’t write a book with that level of procrastination. He needed to crack down. On himself and on his work ethic. People were relying on him now. 

“Let's just start with something we know.” He said to himself. Pushing up his lensless glasses. Looking the part was an idea that his girlfriend had. She called them his writing glasses. They would get him locked in. They hadn’t. He pecked at the keyboard with his pointer fingers. 

Once upon a time. He wrote. 

Then he stopped. Satisfied. And went to get that drink. Before he could open the door, she knocked again. “Phone is ringing!” She said and as he whipped the door open she jumped back with a cry. She was a small skinny black haired beauty who was even more beautiful as she laughed at herself and her reaction. “Sorry,” She said. “Timing. I didn't know you were right here.” She pressed his phone towards him. (She often took it, so he could concentrate and not just play with his apps all day.) The white phone had the number largely spread across the screen. He tried not to show the fear as his eyes readjusted and he realized who was calling. The color draining away from him alerted her to something. 

“You okay?” She asked. “Bad news?” 

“Uh. I don’t know.” He gulped and he felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest making it hard to breathe. With one shaky hand he grabbed the phone. “I have to take this.”

“Publisher?” She asked nervously. “It’s an international number right? I don’t know any area code that's triple 6.” She let go of the phone and went to kiss him on the cheek. To give him strength. But instead she was met with the door closing in her face. 

“Hello.” the author said shakily. 

“Howdy doody stranger.” A curling crackling laugh echoed into his ear. Then a long shrieking tone that was like feedback from a microphone. He winced away. Sweat now on his brow. 

“Why are you calling me? I mean. What’s going on?” He asked. A thousand questions poured through him. But he wondered if he would be getting more work today. Maybe that’s all that was needed of him. Although he hated being used, he wasn’t naive. This was America. He accepted that everyone was used one way or another by the powers to be above them. 

“Well. I just wanted to let you know. OUR book is selling well. Selling well throughout all of the worlds. You should be proud.” He let the silence hang between them. The author begged for it to stop in his mind. He knew there was more. But he braced himself and spoke.

“That’s good.”

“Good?” He snarled back.

“That’s great! Great! And I couldn’t have done it without you. You gave me the story after all. I just did the menial. You know the task of writing it out. Tweaking some things.”

A long wheezing laugh came out the other end. Again that horrible shriek followed and this time he felt some rupturing pressure in his ear as serum started dripping out. He switched ears. Grabbing some toilet paper and stuffing it in there. He realized it was red, not clear liquid coming from his ear. The grainy voice spoke more.

“You were little more than an instrument. You know it. I certainly know it! It was near and dear to my heart and I wanted to get it out there. Mainly for what has just happened.”

“The book store scene!” He noted. Still holding toilet paper to staunch what was happening. He figured he was going to need much more if he didn’t choose his words carefully. 

“Correct.” The voice said curling into a smile. Like he was some toddler who put on the right shoes on the right feet. “He has found the book that we made, had made, will always make. He likes it. I will say the descriptions are better than I could even come up with. Good flair. He is following right along. And I am working my way towards the beginning.”

“This is all great.” The thought occurred to him that maybe he could give him another story to write. If need be. But that was insane, he just needed to get off the phone in one piece.  

“Yes. But…” He waited.

“But?” The author said nervously.

“I don’t know. Things are different now. I think we need to make changes.” 

“Changes? But the book has been printed. I mean it’s been printed all over, right? Worldsss, plural S.” 

“Yes. Yes. Yes. That’s the problem. But we will have a second printing. With a different ending. One that will be more… What's the word…. Metaphysical, you know? That's what people are into now. The original is so pedantic. So cookie cutter.”

“I guess, I don’t understand. When you showed me... When I got this story you told me it was a true story. That it was all already done.” He was gulping for cool air now. Tugging at his collar with a bloodied hand.

“I find that the truth is often changing. Don’t you? And that it wears many faces. Take this for example. In our story you don’t remember the scene where the author takes a phone call. Do you?”

He gasped heavily. “No, I didn't write that!” 

“No you didn't. Truly you didn’t write anything. It has all been written before. For example… Do you know that if there was a typewriter in every dimension babbling off random letters. That eventually the bible would be written on one. Verbatim. Amazing isn’t it?” His voice dropped lower. “That's kinda what you are. So when I tell you the story has been written before, I don’t kid, sugar. The combination of letters you have written have been done exactly before. The story, done. Your prose, your structuring, all done before. So I am finding one more aligned to my tastes. While you are blind to these examples, simply shackled in a prison of thinking that you and your human works are unique.” He enunciated the word human with disdain how you would for cockroach. 

“And that is my mistake. Using an improper tool for what I wanted accomplished. This isn’t a book. This isn’t a play. Or a Hallmark movie made for TV. This is real life.”

Tears were welling in his eyes now. He was trying to think of something to say but he couldn’t. He just wanted to plead with the voice or grovel, both of which were much more in his nature than writing silly stories. But still that tinitic voice kept clicking away. The terrible nature of it’s being barely able to be constrained by the electromagnetic frequencies that channeled his fervor.

 “So I am placing a chapter in our story called. The Author Kills himself.” He said simply.