Start Fresh Tomorrow

It lay in her mailbox, sleek and black. When Lisa pulled it out, there was a thin coat of wax which made the jet black envelope gleam in the daylight, the inlaid gold trim drawing her eye to the back of it, and the pressed wax seal at the tip of the flap.

A scroll and feather pen.

It was real.

Ever since she joined her writer’s group three years ago, she had heard rumors, whispers and hushed tones about a secret society of writers. When people would talk about them openly, which was rare, they all said that unless this group approved of you, you would never make it in the writing world. Those rare and lucky few that were invited to join its ranks, well those were the literary giants of the world, the ones that had rabid fan bases, wrote books that turned into billion dollar movie deals, and vacationed in the south of France twice a year.

Lisa’s hand trembled as she looked the black envelope over and over. It couldn’t be real, could it? It must be some kind of joke. Maybe Tricia was behind this? Her best friend would do something like this, but she wasn’t a struggling writer herself, and Lisa didn’t think she knew anything about the society. Maybe Gladys from her writing group? The old bitty was a harsh critic, and she had mentioned this society to Lisa, once.

Could Lisa’s eyes given her away? She knew that she had wanted to be part of the society from that very moment. Had she been too eager?

“I guess I need to open it,” she said outloud, to no one in particular.

She moved her finger slowly down the flap’s edge, and pulled in one motion when she got to the seal. The paper tore, and the envelope lay open. Inside, a stiff ebony paper card slid out neatly when she tugged on it, the only thing on it was written in gold filigree:

Ms. Lisa Granthell

Shimek State Forest

Farmington, IA 52626

One Week

One week? To get there? One week spent there? Why some forest out in Idaho of all places? Wait, IA wasn’t Idaho, it was Iowa. Lisa had never left NYC in her life. And now her first trip was going to Iowa of all places.

She breathed out deeply. This was it. Time to embrace the future she had always knew that she deserved. There was so much to do if she was going to be in Iowa in a week’s time. But, she would start fresh tomorrow.

***

Lisa drove the rental car, a Ford Focus, into the entrance way of the Shimek State Forest, gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were bright white. Her future was about to begin. The gravel road winded through trees, blocking out much of the sunlight. The air conditioning was on full blast, as Lisa had stopped at the world’s largest truck-stop in some town called Walcott and she discovered how hot it was outside. She would never complain about summer in NYC ever again. The air was thick with humidity, and she began sweating the moment she opened the door to her car. A bunch of hick truckers gawked at her as she stumbled inside the truck stop, soaking in the life giving air conditioning after walking from the gas pump to the building.

Maybe the forest would be cooler, since it was in shade, Lisa hoped. She reached a parking lot, where there were a dozen vehicles already parked there. An affable young man stood at the beginning of a path to a ranger station, his perfectly straight and white smile setting her mind at ease, then driving up her suspicions. His blonde hair and white skin marked him as trouble. She rolled down her window, letting the heat assault her face.

“Why hello, and greetings. You must be Ms. Granthell. Welcome to Shimek State Forest!” he waved with too much excitement and too much happiness in his voice.

Her scalp sweated as she climbed out of the car. “I am Lisa Granthell. Are you some sort of greeter for the forest?”

He chuckled, which caused Lisa’s fingernails to sweat, “No, no. I’m with the Society. Jack Daniels is my name.”

“You know you are named after a whiskey?”

“Don’t I? Don’t actually have much of a taste for it, but that doesn’t stop the jokes. I prefer a nice red, or maybe a vodka cranberry. I’m kind of young to have the full drinking habit, yet. Oh, I’m here to point out to the new members the way to the retreat area.”

“Retreat area? You mean there is another place I gotta go? Aren’t you dying out here?” Lisa vigorously waved her hands in front of her face.

“Hot? Nah. It isn’t that warm yet. Its only mid July, doesn’t really get hot until August. And plus, we are surrounded by all these trees, which keep a lot of the heat out,” Jack beamed again.

A drip of sweat went into her eye, and Lisa rubbed it rapidly. “Okay, whatever Jack. Which direction do I need to drive now?”

Jack laughed again. “Drive? You need to walk up that trail over there. There are no vehicles allowed on it, so you will be hoofing it.”

Lisa soaked through her clothes by the time she reached the immense log cabin in the woods, dragging her luggage for what seemed like several miles through the trees. When she asked Jack to carry it for her, he laughed, and said he couldn’t leave his post.

There was a rocking chair on the porch for this two story cabin, and Lisa collapsed into it, utterly exhausted. She closed her eyes, and pictured herself standing on the red carpet, flash bulbs capturing her every movement. She felt herself nearly dozing off when a creaky Britishy voice interrupted her dream.

“You’re sitting in my chair.”

Lisa opened her eyes, and there was an older woman standing there, vaguely familiar. “I didn’t know there was assigned seats.”

“There aren’t. But that chair is still mine. When you have been a part of this for as long as I have, you get certain privileges.”

Lisa clamored out of the chair, and sat on her luggage. The woman sat down. “You must be Ms. Granthell. My name is Joanne.”

“Hi Joanne. Is someone coming to get my bags? Or do I need to go check in at the front desk?”

Joanne’s eyes took on a patronizing look. “Look sweetie, nobody is going to fetch room service here for you. This is our place, where writing is sacred. Every person here is a writer. We all pitch in, and we all produce. You have a week here to prove yourself, so assume everyone is watching. If I were you, I would pick a room, and change into something creative for the first ceremony. Don’t want to be late for that. And remember, happiness can be found even in the darkest of times if one only remembers to turn on the light."

Lisa opened her mouth, but snapped it shut right away. She could put up with this and these accommodations for a week for a lifetime of fame and fortune. She dragged her luggage inside. What a strange women indeed.

***

She asked a sullen goth man inside where the rooms were at, and he said that only ones left were on the second floor. Lisa wondered why until getting to the top of the stairs and realizing that the building wasn’t air conditioned. The best rooms were in the basement, where it stayed cool.

There was a fan in her room, a desk, two windows, and several strategic plugs. A full bookshelf took an entire wall, and there were three stuffed chairs along with a bed. Lisa discovered that each would be an excellent reading location, positioned with a different angle to a window. She meticulously chose her clothing, and peeked out into the hall to see if anyone was in the communal bathroom. There wasn’t, but Jack was entering his room across from hers when she came out after a much needed shower.

She emerged outside two hours later, with a yellow spring dress and her blue tipped brown hair in a ponytail. There was already a small crowd of bespectacled professor types, divorcees and eager young men and women standing around, making small talk. Joanne came out right after Lisa, and addressed the crowd.

“Welcome to our initiation week everyone. Now that we all are here, we can begin. Just a quick reminder of the rules. By the end of the week, you must have some manner of writing finished to present to the group. For those who are already members, you know what that entails. For those new people, I suggest you devote most of your time here to that end. There will be plenty of refreshment, and vittles to help you get there. I would suggest turning off your phones,” a few chuckles rolled around the group, “but outside of ritual times, I can’t make you. If you need anything, pens, pencils, paper, a new laptop, we have these things at your disposal. Now, lets head to the camp fire for our opening ceremony.”

Lisa followed the group deeper into the darkening woods. For once she was glad that it was getting dark, as her sweat stains wouldn’t be as noticeable. She would definitely request a new venue for the society once they let her in. This wasn’t tolerable.

Light bounced off the trees ahead of her, a roaring bonfire at the center of a clearing their destination. Lisa knelt in the dried leaves just like the others, and watched as an older man and Joanne both pulled a scroll with strange writing on it out of a bag, read in a weird language from it, and then tossed it into the fire. They then took ink bottles, and with quill pens drew on each kneeling person, writing strange words covering their faces.

Once the last person was covered, the assembly dispersed into the dark trees. No one spoke, and Lisa didn’t want to break that silence. She walked back alone, with only an owl hooting to keep her company. She couldn’t believe it, they didn’t even have a lit walkway back to the cabin in the dark. After that eerie ceremony, the least they could have done is walk her back. She could hear others walking out in the woods, but no words were said.

She went straight to the bathroom, and scrubbed her face. Her skin turned red, but the ink didn’t fade. Lisa was beginning to get tired of this. Creepy forest ceremonies, no AC, no socializing afterward. This ink better come off. She did spy a full bar downstairs though. Well, with this many writers around, there had to be alcohol. She decided to go to bed, and start fresh tomorrow.

The ink was still there in the morning. The cabin was quiet, even with some people’s doors open, with the occupants furiously working away even that early. Jack’s was closed, but she could hear the sounds of typing when she held her ear up to it.

She ate breakfast in silence, with fruit, pancakes and sausage laid out. There was a pot of coffee, and Lisa sipped it after finishing her food inside. She sat on a bench on the porch, breathing in the morning air. She could see two others wondering the woods even this early. It wasn’t so hot yet, but she wasn’t feeling like starting yet. Plus she had no idea about what to write about.

Lisa went back to her room, and opened DingDong. Maybe a viral video would spark an idea there. When she looked up from her phone, the sun was setting. She put it down, and went to grab dinner. A pan of grilled chicken breasts with steamed carrots waited. There were four others eating, each in silence. Lisa went over to the bar, and poured herself a whiskey. She found no inspiration watching videos, maybe the drink would have some.

She took it outside, and sat in Joanne’s rocking chair. Her glass stayed full and she watched the forest until her eyes closed. They snapped open as the sun hit them, her head hurting. Lisa stumbled upstairs, just in time to make it to the toilet to vomit. She hugged the toilet for what seemed like hours, and when she made it back to her room, there was a bottle of the whiskey sitting on her desk.

Lisa laid face down on the bed, and let her mind wonder. The ink still hadn’t come off. She hadn’t written anything yet, and for some reason had heard no one speak since the ink ceremony. She tried to say her own name outloud, but the words never seemed to leave her throat. Maybe the alcohol had messed her up really bad. Too bad to start writing today. Start fresh tomorrow.

The next day it started to rain, and didn’t stop all day. She got on Sahara to do some shopping and seek inspiration, but just ended up spending hours looking at shoes and buying several pairs. Start fresh tomorrow.

She opened the whiskey bottle just after breakfast, projecting Hemingway. Start fresh tomorrow.

She decided to go for an early morning jog the next day, and sprained her ankle in a rodent hole not thirty feet from the cabin. Start fresh tomorrow.

Two days left. This had been the weirdest writing retreat ever. No group sessions, no prompts from the leaders. Only writing, and some of the others looked like they had done nothing but write for the entire time. Some of them she hadn’t seen since the inking. And no one talking. Whenever she tried to speak, either the words never came out, or the person stared at her, shutting her up.

Two more days until fortune and fame. But Lisa still hadn’t written anything. She pulled a book off the shelf in her room, and then another, and another. She sat, reading them cover to cover, but the words seemed transitory. They vanished from her mind as soon as she read them. As the sun set, she finished the bottle, and fell asleep in the chair, a fourth book resting on her chest when she dropped it as she fell asleep. Start fresh tomorrow.

Lisa awoke with a start, the moon still shining in the window. She got up, and went to the bathroom. She could hear writing going on behind closed doors, fingering typing on keys, pencils sharpening, and pens clicking. She came back to her room, and saw that a stack of paper lay on her desk, that wasn’t there before. She sat down, and opened a drawer, where a pen lay. Lisa picked it up, and put its tip to the paper.

The pen flowed across the sheets, each motion swift. Her arm didn’t tire, her wrist remained unsore. Lisa didn’t notice the passage of hours, but a loud chime broke through her reverie. Was time up? She could hear the others rustling, so she gathered her pages and went downstairs. The main room now had rows of chairs, portraits of Shakespeare, Joyce, Hemingway, Plath, Shelley, and Austin hanging on its walls, and a podium in front of the chairs.

The others were lined up heading to a table off to the side, with a large bowl sitting on it. Each person walked up to the bowl, dunked their face, and wiped off. Lisa’s heart jumped up, whatever was in the bowl, it removed the ink! She washed and sat down in the back row.

When everyone had arrived, Jack got up and went to the podium. He started to read his pages. Lisa couldn’t believe how engrossing and delightful his words were. The room stayed silent when he finished, and another got up and read. As the others proceeded, Lisa wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, she wanted to hug them. The words that poured out from them touched her very soul, and the discomforts and weirdness melting away from the week. She couldn’t see the others reactions, but even with their silence they must be loving it as she was.

And then it was her turn. She strode up, confident and full of vigor. She was ready. There was no microphone, so she spoke as loud as she could. She looked up at the pauses, hoping to see reactions from the others. Every face looked as though it were stone. She finished to silence, and felt a little deflated as she went back to her seat. Joanne came to the podium next.

“My fellow writers, thank you all for your efforts. Your submissions were all...interesting…but some of you took more advantage of the time here than others. Its not to say that you acted inappropriately, for writers, but the point of this week was to grow as a writer and you only do that as you put words to paper, or screen.” Murmurs floated throughout the crowd.

“Now, what we didn’t tell you initiates is that your work here wasn’t just an introduction. To be a member of The Scroll and The Quill, you have to demonstrate a great talent. We tried to provide a setting where you could only communicate through your written word, in order to facilitate that. And some of you, even with that assistance, just couldn’t produce. I wouldn’t ever discourage an actual writer from their craft, but some of you don’t have what it takes. So, stand up if you think you do.”

Lisa tried to move, but her legs just wouldn’t. Most around her rose without hesitation. “Ms. Granthell, I see you aren’t standing. Well, that makes sense. Feel free to grab a bottle on your way out. You can always start fresh tomorrow.”