Now I know you must be wondering… is he crazy? I can see how you could think that. But here’s the thing: aren’t we all a bit crazy in our own way? The fat fucking bastard ordering thirty tacos and a diet coke at Taco Bell—isn’t he fucking crazy? The pill-popping soccer mom with her mouth around the pool boy’s dick—isn’t she a bit crazy too? Fuck what you think of me anyways. I’m a product of my environment through and through.
Dad hightailed the fuck out of there before I could even walk. Mommy dearest had a penchant for heroin and the temper of a convict. You think I had a choice? You think I asked to be her whipping boy for eighteen years? You think I fucking asked to wear a dress? Fuck no. I’ve found my path to success, and the headcount is worth its weight in gold.
But here I am, sitting with a fresh victim minutes or hours, or maybe even days, from death, and I’m staring mindlessly at a blank screen. The goddamn curser’s flashing and flashing and flashing. The words are at the tip of my tongue but never quite make it to my fingertips. I want to slam the MacBook into her forehead until either the laptop or her skull breaks. I’d bet on the laptop, but I’ve learned, in this room, to never underestimate the strength of the most unorthodox murder weapons. I killed someone with a vacuum cleaner once. Just to see if I could do it.
I’ve had writer’s block before—but never anything like this. This is a fucking nightmare beyond nightmares. The reviews for my last novel were abysmal (though it was still a best seller), and I knew then what I needed to do. I scoured hundreds of negative reviews, most calling for me to soften it up. They loved the murder and mayhem, but my voice, they said, had “become too dominant, too aggressive.” They wanted me to become a woman. To pussify my writing.
That I cannot do. But what I can do is find a woman. The idea of co-writing makes me absolutely ill, but if I could find the right one… if I could find an innocent, easily manipulated little twat who will do my bidding then cease to exist, then I’ll have my masterpiece. Then they’ll have nothing to do but praise me for my work. They’ll worship me. I would have the best of both worlds.
Perhaps I would imprison her for a while. Feed her just enough to keep her alive and have her assist on future releases. Got to keep the gravy train rolling! I’ve thought about it, even planned it a little. But they’re just no fun when they’re alive that long. The screaming, the begging, the fear in their eyes. That fear feeds me for a bit. But days of it? It’s just a hassle. The longest I’ve kept one alive in my kill shed was a week. But that was because I was right at the climax of my story. I really needed to draw her out. To make her suffer until she just couldn’t suffer anymore. As it turned out, a week was her max.
Now, the tough question to answer is how. How do I find her?
“Gasoline”—Halsey
Dear Students,
Mr. Edwin Allen Mercer, NYT best-selling author, is accepting submissions for a possible co-author to collaborate with on his next novel. The submissions are open to all Creative Writing graduate programs in the United States. I believe this is a fantastic opportunity—a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. To be considered, please write a five-thousand-word short story and submit the final draft to Mr. Mercer's assistant via email. The deadline is strict and set for February 2, 2016, all entries due in by midnight EST.
Best of luck,
Dr. Russell
Master’s Program, Emory University
Email submissions to:
[email protected]
I push the announcement to the side of my desk and redirect my gaze to the computer screen. Flash. Flash. Flash. The blinking cursor taunts me—Write something, Miranda. It's just words… my fingers tap over the keyboard.
He slowly drags the blade over her skin, watching as her pale flesh tears open. Red blood seeps—Shit. Delete.
I watch the cursor wipe out that horrible sentence. Red blood? I roll my eyes. That's unoriginal.
Groaning, I slam my head on the keyboard. I've been sitting here for two hours and have a grand total of five hundred words. The deadline is midnight, and I need to write forty-five hundred more by then. Original words that will wow Mr. Mercer. My stomach knots at the possibility that he may very well read something I've written. How can I ever put words on paper that will impress a number-one NYT best seller—my fucking idol?
The first time I read one of his novels, I devoured it. Never had a story unfolded like that before. And his details—so graphic I had nightmares for weeks. His word choices, his characters, all perfect and fucked up. He possesses a gift that reveals the dark beauty, that carnal piece of humanity, that lives within all of us. Every single one of his works fills me with fascination, so how can I possibly write something up to that standard?