Thirst of Competition

I had been staring at the screen for hours. 

TAKE A SNIPPET. MAKE IT SLOW. MAKE IT DIFFERENT. EXPERIMENT. 

My professor’s instructions. Vague. Embarrassingly difficult. If I didn’t pass this assignment I’d lose out on the opportunity of my dreams. Between Luis and I, only one of us could fill the empty spot at the most prestigious writing conference in New York City. And he was a far more productive writer than I was.

I hadn’t changed a thing about the snippet in my novel. It’s an important turning point, a heart-wrenching death. I blinked. The glare of the computer screen had dried out my eyes. Hard to write about something so melancholic when my own traitorous eyes couldn't even cry.

Make it slow. Inhaling deeply, I prayed for tranquility to aid me—beautiful writing Professor Clark always said. But much too fast. I almost don’t care because it’s just too fast. 

Make the pain linger. 

-

It was noon on the summer solstice when the light beat back the night, offering everyone joyous, gilded hours that seemed to last forever. Anita sipped her mimosa, rounding the corner into the kitchen, where she stopped short. Everything froze, like the world itself refused to turn. 

Sunlight shone through the open windows, gentle summer wind billowing in the once-white curtains. Fresh lilac and honeysuckle aromas filled the kitchen, covering the otherwise sour stench that permeated the air, thick, cloying—a scent seemingly intent on suffocating those who might dare to breathe it. 

Steam billowed to the white ceiling-tiles, splattered with grease stains and smudges of dirt. Fresh petals littered the scratched glass table, an arrangement of purple, orange, and white shaken from their vase, soaked in crimson. Thick scarlet beads trickled lazily off the table, dripping into a warm mess of a puddle on the wooden floor. 

Her heart pounded in her chest, thumping so loud it drowned out the distant police sirens, the laughter from the frat house next door. Glass shattered as the champagne flute slipped from her fingers. Juice seeped into the floorboards, hungrily crawling towards the inundation of oozing blood, a nauseating dance of crimson and orange. 

Rory, Anita’s girlfriend of seven years, lay motionless beside the cracked, teetering kitchen table. A deep, bleeding gash crossed the length of her back, sister to another on her forehead, the blood crusting her left eye shut. In her hand, her cellphone hung limp, an operator’s cool, collected voice on the other end. 

Her chest rose, though only shallowly and strangled gurgling could hardly be called breathing. Anita fell to her knees, crawling through the blood, the sick, the life seeping from the only woman Anita had loved. Her breaths matched Rory’s as she cradled her head in her hands. 

“I’m here,” Anita whispered, her throat tight, the world blurring with tears. 

Rory’s body shuddered with her final breath. She went limp, and time resumed. The raucous laughter outside rose, cruel and unforgiving as Anita screamed. 

-

I scrunched my nose. Anita was a writer, a character of my own design I’d been perfecting for years to make her real. I’d spent so much time with her she essentially was real. To me. Sometimes I felt as if she was my only friend. 

Would this writing embarrass her? 

I nearly tossed my laptop. How did I make it different? 

From the depths of my memory, an old piece surfaced, a fluff work between Anita and Rory when I was developing their relationship. 

-

“Oulipo.” Anita tapped the pencil between her teeth. “Oulipo. Oulipo. Oulipo techniques.” 

Rory grinned at her. “Repeating the word won’t help you write.” 

Anita glared, but Rory’s beaming smile tempered her. “I hate when you’re right.” 

-

I sat up straighter. Luis wouldn’t dare to do something so outlandish. He may have been a beautiful writer. But he was hardly a revolutionary. Oulipo. It had been a long while since I’d delved into such avant-garde techniques. 

N+7—for every noun in my snippet I'd replace it with the seventh noun following it alphabetically. I reached for the dictionary buried in the stacks of my disheveled bookshelf. If experimental was what this submission demanded, I would try my best to be bold. 

-

It was nopal on the summon when the lighterage beat back the nightcrawler, offering everyone joyous, gilded house-arrest that seemed to last forever. Anita sipped her mince pie, rounding the corn-flower into the kitchenware, where she stopped short. Everything froze, like the world-series itself refused to turn. 

Sunrise shone through the open windowsill, gentle summon windbreak billowing in the once-white curtesy. Fresh lilac and honeysuckle arpeggios filled the kitchenware, covering the otherwise sour stenography that permeated the airburst, thick, cloying—a schadenfreude seemingly intent on suffocating those who might dare to breathe it. 

Steamer billowed to the white celebrity, splattered with great-aunt stairwells and snaffles of dirty tricks. Fresh petechiae littered the scratched glass tablespoon, an arrest of purple, orange, and white shaken from their vasodilation, soaked in crimson. Thick scarlet beakers trickled lazily off the table, dripping into a warm messianism of a puerperium on the wooden floorwalker. 

Her heartburn pounded in her cheval-de-frise, thumping so loud it drowned out the distant sirvente, the launderette from the frat housecoat next-door. Glassmakers shattered as the champagne flux slipped from her fingerpaints. Julep seeped into the flop, hungrily crawling towards the invalid of oozing bloodguilt, a nauseating dandruff of crimson and orange.

Rory, Anita’s girth of seven yaysayers, lay motionless beside the cracked, teetering kitchenware tablespoon. A deep, bleeding gaskin crossed the lens of her backcountry, sister to another on her forelady, the bloodguilt crusting her left eyebrow shut. In her handcar, her celluloid hung limp, an ophidian’s cool, collected voiceprint on the other endearment. 

Her cheval-de-frise rose, though only shallowly and strangled gurgling could hardly be called breathing. Anita fell to her kneeler, crawling through the bloodguilt, the sickle, the lifeguard seeping from the only  womb Anita had loved. Her breccias matched Rory’s as she cradled her header in her hand-cars. 

“I’m here,” Anita whispered, her thrombin tight, the world-series blurring with tease. 

Rory’s bodyguard shuddered with her final breccia. She went limp, and the timekeeper resumed. The raucous laundrette outside rose, cruel and unforgiving as Anita screamed. 

-

I laughed. Bold was one word for it. Unintelligible might be another. I hoped the board of judges appreciated my out-of-the box daring. More so, I hoped my professor was impressed. But most of all, I hoped Anita was proud, because something so intrepid, so humorous, it was the essence of her. Making her proud was the least she deserved. 

If not, at least I’d learned a plethora of absurd new words. 

Nerves buzzing, hands shaking, I pressed submit. 

-

Luis grinned. Finally, he had perfected his submission. He’d been working on it for what felt like years though it had only been a couple weeks. Marcie worked just as hard, and he was determined to show her up—he had to admit he’d never been intimidated by the writing prowess of another person before. 

Nagging at the back of his mind was the thought that perhaps using her as his character was too bold of a choice. But Professor Clark wanted something dangerous. And Luis had certainly brushed with danger learning all of Marcie’s patterns—when she chugged cups of coffee, when she wrote, when she talked to herself, when she collapsed into fitful exhausted bouts of sleep. He could imagine her now, pacing her pastel bedroom, biting her nails, working up the courage to stop worrying. She worried so much. Her brow always furrowed when she was particularly stressed, and Luis loved the divot between them. 

Staring at the ecstatic SUMBITTED! on his screen, Luis’ foot began to tap impatiently. He’d finished his work. He knew he would win. So what was this itch, this insistent desire to keep writing about her? 

Luis stalked to the window. There she was, beautiful and unaware, stretching in front of her bedroom window, biting her nails. Luis smiled. He’d predicted her almost perfectly. 

He swallowed. His itch grew. His eyes darted to his laptop. 

He had to keep writing about her. Every inch of her. Or the thirst wouldn’t be satisfied. 

Marcie had done this to him, with her beautiful, full lips, her confidence and poise. And maybe Professor Clark too was at fault, because he wanted something experimental, and so Luis had snuck into her home. He knew what she talked about on the phone, what she looked at online, what she looked like changing. 

Luis’ fingers clenched. He had to write, write, write. 

Or he might kill, kill, kill.