Lights Out, part 1

After all, what was life? According to Shakespeare, it was a tale told by an idiot. Liz sighed as she leaned back in her squeaky office chair. Sometimes, she felt like agreeing with old Will. She had tried so hard, and what had it amounted to? 

The succulents on her desk looked up at her mournfully. She swivelled her chair and stood up, walked to the window, and heaved the sash open. There was about an inch of water in the halved bottle she had left on the sill last night. Liz poured a few drops went into the gravel of each pot, careful not to get any water on the bloating yellow leaves. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

Her laptop blinked, returning to the rest screen. Liz tapped the touch pad and watched it come to life again. Her manuscript looked back at her; one of her many manuscripts. She reached to the bookshelf above her desk and took a hardcover down. This book was pristine, standing out among the other worn backed novels. Not because she didn’t love it, but because she didn’t need to read it. She had it memorized. She had written it. 

When this one had gotten published, she had been so happy. It was her dream come true. The money had started coming in, too, enough for her to quit her job and devote her days as well as her nights to writing. She had moved out of her parent’s house, thanked them profusely for the chance at life they had given her, and struck out on her own. 

Liz preferred the country, but an apartment in town was the best idea. She had sold her car and bought a bike to minimize spending. But then sales started going down. She kept up her Instagram page, did signings at bookstores and readings at libraries. Nothing was working. She needed a new book. She had several. She needed a publisher. She had none.

Perhaps it was a good idea she was trying the self-publishing route. It was harder to get noticed, so the profit was smaller, but she was supposed to get a bigger percentage of the profits. That would be encouraging if the editors there would answer her emails after they had received her money. 

She dropped herself down to her mattress. She had sold her bed frame how many weeks ago? Now the only furniture she owned was the bookshelf. Her first apartment with its nice kitchen and bathroom and been exchanged for living in the Brown’s spare bedroom. Her lonely window faced the alley and cement wall beyond. Her bike leaned against the wall so it wouldn’t rust or get stolen outside. 

The room vibrated with a slight hum. The garage door opener had been activated. Mrs. Brown was taking the kids to school. It was about time. Liz had needed to use the washroom for an hour already. 

The Browns had established a very unique contract with Liz. She was allowed to stay in their spare bedroom for next to nothing, provided she act like a ghost. No using the front door when there was a perfectly good window at ground level. No using the bathroom when one of them might need it. No walking through the house or using the kitchen when they were at home. It wasn’t too hard, but if nobody would print her stories, soon it would be effortless. She would be a real ghost. Or whatever, really. It was disconcerting to think about what one became after death. Her parents held the belief of a heaven. She didn’t know what to believe. 

Liz gave her head a shake. It was time to do something. She set a seven minute timer on her phone, grabbed a towel, clean t-shirt and pants. She tiptoed out to the washroom, looking around in case one of the children was at home, sick. That had happened before, and she had almost lost her room. She turned the shower faucet on to almost cold, jumped in and scrubbed herself down. Her hair was all in a pile on her head; she didn’t have time to wash it now. That was a Saturday morning thing, when the Browns were grocery shopping. 

Her phone rang, and it wasn’t the hobbit theme set for her alarm. She hopped out of the shower, dried off her hands, and picked up the phone. 

“Hello?” 

Empty beeping met her ear. She was too late. She got dressed and scurried back to her room as the garage door sounded again. She hit redial. 

“Hello. You have reached The Tyson Self Publishing Firm. Please dial the extension of the person you are looking for now. For details on rates, services, and timelines, please visit our website at tysonselfpublishing.org. Have a great day.”

The phone went quiet then. Liz pulled it away from her ear, disappointment welling up through her stomach to her throat. She checked her voicemail, then her email, but both were empty. Groans wanted to spill out, so she fell into bed and let her pillow take the brunt. What could she do now? It was useless to keep writing. Surely there was something else she could do.

She could go in person. Her dad always said that it was the best way to make a good impression. Yes. That was it. 

Liz sat up and brushed her fingers through her hair, combing it away from her face. She opened the window, hoisted her bike through it, and took off down the alleyway. 

Light Way Publishers had a brick front, with two white pillars on either side of the double glass doors. Liz parked her bike at the empty rack two businesses down the street. She walked tall, a strange mixture of deep purpose and traitorous confidence stirring inside her. She opened the door and walked into the reception room.

A woman with beaded eyeglass holders looked up from her computer. “Can I help you?” she asked, glancing at Liz’s casual attire. 

“I— I was wondering who I would see about publishing a book.”

“Well, Mr. Gerhart is quite busy. Do you have an appointment?”

“Oh… no.”

An elderly gentleman poked his head out of an office door. “Send her in, Mrs. McKeen. I’ve got a spare minute.”

Mrs. McKeen raised her eyebrows but motioned her forwards. 

Liz tried to keep her knees stable as she entered the office. Mr. Gerhart motioned to an empty chair across his desk, and she gladly sat down. 

“Thank you for meeting with me, sir.”

“As I said, I only have a minute. Do you have a card? You look rather young to be an agent.”

“No, I don’t have a card. And I’m a writer, sir. I’ve been working on—“

“I am afraid I don’t have time to read every young writer’s scribblings. However, if you give me a short synopsis here, perhaps I can think about it.”

“Oh, of course, sir, I’d be more than happy to. You see, my main character’s name is Zinnia, only, well, she’s not the only main character. There’s Marcus, whose father is the head of a university, and there’s Hillary, Zinnia’s best friend, who gets to narrate a few chapters, and—“

“What do they do?”

“They— well, they… Oh, I’m sorry, I blanked for a bit. Hold on.” Liz took out her phone, which she knew was a big no-no in interviews, and opened her notes app. “Well, you see, it actually starts off with Quinn, who is Marcus’ older brother, but nobody knows it. And, hold on,” she scrolled a bit farther, but the neutrons in her brain refused to fire. She felt the fire of embarrassment flushing her neck and reaching up to her ears. 

Mrs. McKeen’s voice cracked over the little intercom on the desk.

“I’m sorry, Miss. I’ve got a scheduled appointment. You’ll understand, I’m sure?”

“Oh, of course. I’m so sorry.” 

Liz fled.

She dropped her phone in the reception room while trying to tuck it back into her pocket, fumbled to pick it up with Mrs. McKeen watching, and made it out the door. She walked quickly, trying to get away from the shame. It didn’t register at first when she saw the empty bike rack.

The empty bike rack.

The empty bike rack.

Somebody had stolen her bike.

Tears spilled out then. She sat down by the bicycle rack and cried.