Fiction: The ePub

I had always wanted to be an author but had never succeeded at being published. One day, as I read the local daily, I stumbled upon an advertisement: Free ePub slots. Guaranteed traditional publication. Limited places available. I clipped it.

The next afternoon, at the town hall auditorium, I took a seat. There were plenty vacant. Apparently, few people wanted the job of a writer. Were all writers just desperate for easy money -converting the sweetly spoken word into dollars for page count?

She seemed to read my mind, the presenter. If you are looking for easy money, look elsewhere.

Good luck, lady, I thought. There was no way for anyone to take their eyes off what a stunning woman she was. Her hair, like honey tipped out of a jar. And her curves wrapped tight in a beewax suit.

We were all handed an ePub "assignment" card. They're random, she said into her mic. Every one is good.

Every one seemed to be, but mine. I watched the other attendees -there must have been 3 dozen author wannabes, fill out, tear off the perforated slip and hand it in.

Now its up to all of you to come up with something good, said the woman, dismissing them.

Every one smiled as they left, but me. I have something to umm... complain?

There was a flash of indignation sweep over her gorgeous looks. It seemed her facial muscles were showing, then her skull and then an all-seeing Masonic eye which stared into my soul.

I think I got a umm... if I may, miss, say this card -it's not good for any story.

How so? I could feel the static from her honey hair prickle my chest though she was an arm's length away.

I want another one.

Okay, she said to my surprise.

How many do you have left?

While you were all waiting, they were typed out based on every attendee's body language.

I thought they were random, tho?

Yes. But did you see anyone complain?

No, but the negative doesn't prove itself. I don't like my assignment I'm afraid -sorry to say.

Since you and I are left, we'll have to trade stories. Guarantees are limited -they are created this way.

I wrote my card. I wrote the best story germ I could think of and gave it to the gorgeous woman. Then she slipped me mine. We read them together and she laughed. I turned the new ePub invite card in my hands, folded it back up and stuffed it into my backpack. 

That night, in my parents' flat, in my room with its wood slat shutters and whirring metal fan, I lifted the lid of my laptop. A pre-owned ThinkPad from 2015. The unfinished wood of the crude desk dug trenches into my arms. I unfurled the card. And I typed, quoting the words she wrote:

"A good story has no beginning, nor does it have an end. It always was and always will be. What the listener wants to hear are the consolatory words between -common ones, arranged oh so sweetly..."

I then wrote my ePub, late into what always was, early into what soon would be.