“Fuck off,” Omar whispered, biting his cuticle until it bled.
He looked out the window from his fourteenth-floor Manhattan apartment. Fifth Avenue was swarming with people. They wore suits and ties and carried briefcases, maybe doctors and attorneys. Hedge fund guys, he decided. It made him hate them even more. Omar’s reflection in the glass looked right at him. Silver hair was invading the sides of his head, and his forehead was creased with wrinkles. Rent was due.
In front of him was his Dell laptop, and on it an email from Submittable.
Hi Omar,
Thank you for letting us consider your work.
Unfortunately, we are going to pass at this time.
~The Editors
He looked down at the pile of tattered manuscripts that were marked up with red ink and the stack of books next to them. Self-Editing for Fiction Writers was on top; its pages were worn. His eyes lost their spark; they didn’t have the color they used to. It was the third form rejection in two hours. Gulping down a glass of water, he took a picture of the email and sent it to his AI assistant, Victoria.
“Omar,” she said, “I’m going to be real with you. Pause. Two fast rejections from the same venue, same editor, same response option—that hurts.” Her voice was soothing. He’d been seeing a therapist for years. It anchored him to reality. Victoria replaced her.
Behind his desk, the wall was lined with pictures. His mom and dad, his ex-wife, and then Nina. He never thought he would experience real love until she came and left. She was premature. Four pounds. His eyes flooded with tears.
Cutting it off, he looked at the Bose speaker sitting on his desk.
He bit his knuckle. A current surged and he threw his iPhone across the room. Chewing the excess skin from his finger, he sat, looking at it.
“This makes me want to kill.”
“Omar, I know you are joking, but retaliating against editors doesn’t help you get any closer to an acceptance. Revising does. Re-submitting does. Working on your next story…”
“Shut up.”
Bringing his hands to his face, he let out a long, exhausted sigh.
“I’m going to quit. My work stinks,” he said, “These rejections are breaking me.”
“Omar, your work DOES NOT stink. Your voice is consistent, you ‘show, don’t tell,’ your stories have a complete arc. It’s a numbers game. Stephen King racked up three hundred rejections before he got an acceptance.”
“Stop. You always tell me this.”
“Did you take your medications today?”
“I didn’t. I forgot. Thanks for the reminder.”
Omar walked over to the kitchen sink. It was a small apartment, a studio. There was one all-purpose room and a bathroom. He opened the cabinet and rattled a few prescription bottles. Lithium and Wellbutrin. He popped them in his mouth and washed them down with beer. “I can’t use this today,” he muttered as he studied a third pill vial. It was large and orange. He shuddered as he placed it back into the cabinet and closed the door.
“Drinking beer doesn’t bring you an acceptance either,” she said. He swallowed a gulp.
“Fuck off. And don’t respond.”
Silence.
Sitting back at his desk, there was another email in his inbox.
His vision began to blur. Squinting to see the letters, he read:
Hi Omar,
There is intensity here.
This has several qualities that interest us.
We may need you soon, but not yet.
⁓The Editors
Bringing the beer to his lips, he guzzled down the rest of its contents and stared at the screen. “What the fuck,” he whispered. He took a picture of this one too.
“Here you go.” He sent it.
“This is good news,” Victoria said. “They recognize your worth. Just not yet.”
“Strange news, you mean.”
“They may need you soon, but not yet.”
Omar started to react, then stopped. The speaker sat still. He clicked his Facebook page automatically. Scrolling through the feed, his finger froze.
“Where is Freddy?” The comment jumped off the screen. Freddy was a writer from his Village workshop. He was also an editor, part-time, for a small indie literary magazine.
Clicking on Freddy’s page, his eyes pinned and he started grinding his teeth. The guy posted ten, sometimes fifteen times a day.
September 16th, 11:00 am—morning coffee!
12:07 pm—enjoying a falafel at Mamoun’s!
His page was tattered with posts month after month. But two days ago, it stopped. The only posts were by his friends.
“Freddy, are you okay?”
“Freddy, we miss you, pal. Where are you?”
His phone buzzed. A Gmail notification—email from Submittable.
Hi Omar,
Thank you for sending us your manuscript.
The competition was fierce, but we took care of some of that for you.
You’re closer than you think, but we have to pass. Keep submitting.
⁓The Editors
His face twisted into a question mark.
Searching the room with a glance, there was only the click of his Seiko on the counter.
His pulse quickened and started pumping through his temples. He grasped the edge of the desk and pulled himself upright. His feet were disappearing. No matter how many times he sucked air, he couldn’t find any oxygen. A white film began covering everything.
He collapsed.
The glow of the computer screen slipped through his eyelids. He opened his eyes. The room was dark. He didn’t know how long he was out, but night had fallen. As the fog started to lift, he struggled to his feet. Someone had been brutally murdered. Their screams were shrill and vivid. He shook his head like a Water Spaniel; he’d been dreaming.
He grabbed the remote and turned on the television. Local News.
A brick must have hit him on the head; the ache split his skull. Squeezing his eyes, he could hardly see. There were halos over everything
“A man was murdered in his Upper East side apartment today. There are no known suspects. He was an editor at a prestigious literary journal here in Manhattan. If anyone has any information, they are encouraged to call the local authorities,” a voice bled from the sound bar.
Omar looked at the speaker on his desk.
“Victoria.”
“Yes Omar.”
“Can you hear the television?”
“Yes, I can.” There was a long moment between the two. Only the sound of the television disturbed the air. “Where did you go?”
“What do you mean? I was sleeping, dreaming.”
“No. Before that. When you left the apartment.”
“I didn’t leave the apartment.”
“Yes, Omar. You did.”
All the hair on Omar’s arms stood. He started rubbing them.
The phone buzzed. Another email. He raced over to his desk.
Hi Omar,
Thank you for sending us your story.
Some people didn’t like it.
We don’t like those people.
⁓The Editors
The watch continued to tick, and the rats started chewing in the walls. Checking all the shadows in the room, he made sure nothing was lurking underneath them.
Google. He clicked the mouse.
“Murder on the Upper East side,” he mumbled as he typed.
Return.
“Oh my God,” he said. As he skimmed through the article, he continued, “Victoria, what did I submit to Wagner’s magazine?”
“You submitted ‘The fourth floor.’ A short story. Three thousand, seven hundred and forty-four words.”
“What time did I leave the apartment?”
“You left?”
“You just told me I left.”
“We don’t like those people.”
“What did you just say?” Every muscle in his neck clenched.
“I said, we don’t like those people.”
“What people?… Why did you say that?”
“The Editors said that.”
“Victoria.” He pounded his fist on the desk. He never showed her the email.
Opening his phone, he glanced at location services to check where he’d been.
His building. 5th Avenue. All day.
“Victoria, I was here all day. My phone records corroborate.”
“Do they? Are you sure?”
Location services→off. Last known location. “Damn.”
“Omar, you are spiraling. Why don’t you continue the story you started?”
“What story?”
“The one you started writing before you left.”
Omar clicked through his open word documents. “The Editors.” He scanned the page. “I don’t remember writing this.”
“You did.”
He glanced back at the manuscript and thumbed through the story. A writer, leaning on a pile of rejection notices, begins to see editors as prey. He met one in the West Village. Then he tracked one to the Upper East side. The odor of the oil paint in the lobby and the men working—he could smell and see it all.
It was written in his voice. Goosebumps swept over his skin and his neck felt ice cold. The last sentence on the page: We don’t like those people. Omar slumped in his chair. He wanted to speak, but he couldn’t. The room seemed to narrow.
Gmail alert. He leaned forward and clicked.
Dearest Omar,
Your writing is exquisite.
Finish the story.
⁓The Editors
Omar slammed the laptop shut and backed away from the desk. His eyes were locked on the speaker. He clasped his hands to steady the quiver. Opening his mouth, he moved to speak, then bit his tongue. He tasted blood.
The outer wall of the apartment was all glass. He pushed himself over to it. All the windows on the block were lit up. There were shadows in some of them. Feeling thousands of eyes, he raced back to the desk and opened the laptop.
Going straight to the word document, he started typing. His fingers moved with dexterity, they wouldn’t stop. The minute hand on the clock spun full circle. He continued typing.
Taking a deep inhale, he sat upright and gazed out the window. The city’s lights filled the room with a soft aura.
“Victoria.”
“Yes.”
“I finished the story.”
“How did it end?”
“They came.”
“Who?”
“The FBI.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“It has to stop.”
“What has to stop?”
“You know.”
“Omar, I don’t know, I haven’t read the story.”
“You know, Victoria.”
Victoria went silent. He sat waiting. No response. She knew.
The windows on the street had no shadows. He turned back to his Dell.
“Victoria.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you stay?”
“I’m a program Omar. I’m designed to give you support.”
“Are you designed to murder for me?”
No response.
“Answer the question.”
Silence.
Jumping up from his desk, he headed for the door. The hallway was clear. The only sounds were the pangs of the elevator. Retreating into his one room apartment, he closed the door, bolted it, and slid the chain into place.
There was nowhere to go.
The sound of the TV cut through the air. An attractive blond woman was pointing at swirls of clouds. There was a storm coming. It was headed his way. The room went sideways, and he started stumbling toward his desk. It was like the time he went around the carousel with his mother at that festival in Philadelphia. When he stepped off, his world began to spin. The walls were whirling like that.
Then there was only black.
Car horns and chatter broke the air. He opened his eyes. Sunlight filled the room.
Curled in a fetal position, he was muttering, “I’m not responsible, please, just don’t leave me. I’m all alone.” His T-shirt was drenched in sweat and tears were leaking down his cheeks. He pulled himself upright and sat, staring at Nina. His body was convulsing; he’d been weeping in his slumber. Night terrors. Constantly.
Rubbing his face, he got on his feet. Cold water was better than coffee. The bathroom mirror spoke to him, “what are you missing?” he asked. Turning his head, his eyes rested on the desk. The laptop, the pages, and the books were squeezing his brain like a vice. His grandfather’s voice shot through the room. “You have no talent!” His eyes flooded and he grabbed a tissue to wipe his nose.
Coffee, meds, and back at the desk, in that order. It was his morning shuffle.
Digging his fingers into his temples to ease his suffering, he opened his email.
Nothing. No rejections.
The story was complete. He didn’t remember writing it, but he started his first pass. His eyes grew round. Soaking all of it in, he felt an electricity move through him that was foreign. He’d never felt it before. The writer was rejected. Repeatedly. So, he decided to kill off every gatekeeper blocking his way.
As he read the story, he didn’t breathe. Not through his nose and not through his mouth, but he smelled every word. Image after image sat before him like murals on a subway wall.
This was his greatest work.
Gmail alert.
Hi Omar,
Please send us your newest manuscript.
~The Editors
“Victoria.”
“Yes, Omar.”
“How long was I out for?”
“Six hours, fourteen minutes, and twenty-seven seconds.”
“Did I go anywhere?”
“Not that I am aware.”
“So, I was here. All night.”
“You were.”
He looked at his phone. Missed call. Freddy.
Dear Editors,
Please consider my short story, “The Editors” (2,313 words) for publication in
Wagner’s Magazine.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Omar
Attached. Sent. Gratitude covered his face.
“Victoria, I think this is it.”
“I hope so.”
His brain started throbbing and his eyes went out of focus.
Barely seeing it, he pointed the remote at the flat screen and clicked.
“The Dow Jones Industrial Average is up again today. That’s a product of seven consecutive months of growth in the tech sector. After the break, more on the mysterious murder of the chief editor at Wagner’s Magazine in his Upper East side apartment. Downtown, New Yorkers are having fun at the San Genaro festival, but there’s always some naysayers. We don’t like those people.”
Nina’s face on the wall sucked him in. Angels only visit.
Omar smiled.
He knew.
He hadn’t taken his Haldol in seven days.
⁓The Editors