Slowly The Door Opened...

8/14/2019 Slowly The Door Opened...

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Slowly the Door Opened____________________________

Stubs was a slow writer. Even though he had published some forty-five

supernatural novels he struggled every morning to decide what came next. It washis greatest fear that the words which flowed from his pen to the pages of thebooks which had made him a fortune would dry up.

Today was no exception. He had the next book to start 9:30, Mondaymorning, time clock punched, never work in the mill again and the dim plot wasfloating like carbon atoms in his head.

The door to the ex-laundry room off the kitchen was jerked open. Heglanced up to see Tip putting her head around the corner. Her stringy, lightbrown hair was pulled back in a ponytail which fell in front of her face, swingingback and forth like an over-caressed rabbits foot.

Dont forget the Fed-Ex delivery this morning, she hollared. Theyve got

two boxes of The Book for tonights party at my sisters. Shipped yesterday fromNew Yohk.

She said the last syllable with the broad accent he had come to know andlove. He slouched back further in the padded office chair giving her a confidentgrin. Yup. Part and parcel of my plan, he intoned.

Dont I know it, she sniggered. Her face disappeared from the door andwas replaced by a wiggling butt. A moment later he heard the sound of thekitchen door slam shut and the four-wheel drive engine kick in. The car cruncheddown the driveway leaving him alone in the silent room.

A smile played around his lips as he swiveled the chair back in front of thebig, black metal desk. Giving away free copies of his books to friends and

neighbors was how he kept resentment down at the megaton wealth he hadmade from schlock novels. It was a good plan and he was proud of it. Practicalman. You gotta be practical, he told himself.

He picked up a yellow pencil on the desk and stuck it in his mouth. It hadalready been eaten down to the Dixon line printed in tiny black letters on theyellow paint. He ordered them in bulk from a chain store in New York. It was hiscardinal rule neverto go into a stationery store here. He didnt want the local folkto know he couldnt write without a crutch.

He took the Number Two pencil out of his mouth and stuck it behind hisright ear with an air of authority. It was time to get down to business. But he

continued to sit in the chair twirling the yellow pencil distractedly.Only a few days ago the kids had been whispering to each other in the

kitchen about Mister Step-On-It. He supposed it was because hed talked to Tipabout the contract for the next book with Atheneum. The deadline was only twomonths away and he hadnt started it.

He wasnt thrilled to have the kids call him names. What he really did careabout, however, was having people believe that his college nickname Stubs


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short for Stanley he liked to say came from the stubble of his beard, not hisdevotion to Number Two yellow pencils.

Where was I? he asked himself out loud. He moved the pad of linedyellow paper on the desk blotter closer and put the pencil down beside it. Heknew the new plot was humming somewhere inside his brain if only he could

connect to it. He was after all known as a Prolific Writer who ground out anovel a year for his ecstatic fans.He grinned in smug satisfaction at the thought that the next book like all

the other books he had written (still selling, indoobitaly) would be made into aTV movie, audio cassettes, and foreign translations. It was those secondaryrights which had made him a Big Name. Maybe he would make a cameoperformance in this one and share his megabuck face with his fans again.

He tapped the pencil on the metal desk listening to the staccato sound inthe quiet work room. All he needed was a plot and he could get cracking on thenovel that he knew was waiting to be written inside of him. He put the yellowpencil back in his mouth and sat chewing on the fast-disappearing stub.

Five minutes later he hoisted himself off the cushioned chair whose metalwheels screechedon the wood floor as they rolled backwards. His brown leathershoes scuffed on the tile floor as he walked over to the tan, metal supply cabineton the other side of the room.

Pulling open the two doors he stood like a shaggy zombie staring at thefive shelves piled high with paper goods. On the top shelf were four packages ofyellow pencils lined up three deep. Unconsciously he reached for one and thenyanked his hand back, remembering what he had come for.

He ran his right finger down the side of the cabinet to the third shelf feelinga thin wisp of dust cover the surface. His eyes roamed to the bottom shelf.Squatting down on his feet he reached out to remove three reams of copy paper.Carefully he extended his right hand into the dark well at the back and slowlydrew out a rectangular brown box. Clutching it in his left hand he shoved thecellophane copy paper packages back on the bottom shelf. Closing the cabinetdoors he walked back to the desk where he set the brown box down next to theyellow pad.

The Muses have arrived!he chortled with high-pitched glee. The Ancientshave come forth once again to inspire me!

Slowly he pulled off the top of the textured brown manuscript box. Insidewas a stack of loose papers bound together by three metal clips on the side. Hestood staring at the faded, white paper with worn-out, typewriter letters on thefront page as a slow smile began to spread over his face.

Eureka! The next book!he muttered. Will the heavens never cease toamaze me?

He picked up the half-eaten yellow pencil and stuck it in the right side ofhis mouth where he could roll it over with his tongue. With his left hand he beganslowly turning the pages of the manuscript over. He liked to let a random word ortwo trigger his imagination. Usually that was all it took to give him a good start onwhat came nextin a novel.

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Even though he knew this one almost by heart it was the new ideas he gotfrom looking at its dog-eared pages which started his creative juices flowing.

Jim-Boy. Dr. Robert. Mister Myron. His eyes caught the names of thecharacters as he flipped the sheets with his left thumb. They were as familiar tohim as those of his own family. He chomped on the rolling yellow pencil stub like

a man testing a cigar and stared off into space.He could name his hero Bob, possibly Bobby, maybe Bobby S. Mattson.He might be a rock star down on his luck who sells one home-made recording ofa song and catapults to fame. Neverrevealing that he stole it from a geek-freakdown the street who played his guitar with the window wide open. Hes an instantsuccess -- until the electric guitar he plays starts to talk to him and the plane of aproducer flying in for a recording session disappears from the radar screen.

It was working! Already he had a plot for the next book.He sat down in the swivel chair and scrawled a few notes on the yellow

pad. So what if it was a reprise of his own oft-told story about breaking intopublishing. It was a winner! thanks to the inspirationalnovel which had helped

him overcome so many obstacles before in his career as a writer.Absent-mindedly he reached for a new yellow pencil in the black caddy bythe desk blotter. He might dispense with the name Mattson and replace it withMichaud. There was no need to advertise the provenance of this inimitablemanuscript. Sure the lately deceased author had dedicated it to Gary Vida inhomage to his masterpiece Myra about a Hollywood starlet. And Gary Vida hadwritten a sequel Myron to honor the dedication. But he had only learned about itsub rosa - the same way Stubs had..

That was how publishing worked a little rumor, some innuendo, a fewhints by the trade press and a best-selling book was born. What goes around,comes aroundthey liked to say. All they needed was an over-the-transommanuscript in a minor publishing house and an author who wasnt likely to seethe book again. But there was no need to publicize these untidy facts about whatsome overzealous type might call a purloined manuscript. The important thingwas that he had it in his possession and it wasthe means to an end.

He settled back in his chair, pleased that the plot for the new book hadbegun to shape itself in his mind. He didnt really suffer from writers block but theinspirationalnovel in front of him was always a helpful tool if he got stucksomewhere. He had a very simple philosophy of writing. What you see you steal.It had made him a fortune in the last thirty years. And he wasnt about to turnback the clock on that fact.

Still there were timesonly a few times mind youwhen he hit a blankwall at some point in a novel. The best thing hed found to do then was take theinspirationalmanuscript with him for a walk hidden under his coat. Otherwise, hesometimes wrote a few paragraphs about the manuscript in his current novel andworked out the kinks from there. Fast Cars was one of his favorite titles for it.Where the hero dies in a car accident and his papers are strewn all over thehighway for just about anyone to pick up.

It was true that he sometimes had trouble getting an idea for a novel. Buthe had learned through trial-and-error how this impeccable source of inspiration

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came in handy. It was like a magic amulet, always there to prompt him with aword or two which started his imagination going. Its archaic chapter headingsalways gave him a mental boost. It didnt matter that the ivy league graduate hadbeen reading too much ofTom Jones. The title In Which Robert Minds His OwnBusiness had served him well in publishing megabuck novels turned into celluloid

blockbusters at the box office. He minded, and it was his business whichflourished.He rubbed the stubble of his beard with his hand and put the yellow pencil

back in his mouth. Sometimes it made him yearn for a Lucky Strike but Tip hadtied him to a chair in the trailer every night for six months before they weremarried to make him quit. Now he only had an occasional impulse for a cigarette.But then, hed had all the luck in the world already.

He leaned forward to look at his scrawled notes on the yellow pad. Theywere the gist of a plot. What he needed was something more to jog his fertileimagination. Heaving his heavy body off the chair he stood up and walked over tothe bookshelf to switch on the radio.

WXBZ here at AM 102.3, the DJ was pattering smoothly. Today wehave an all-time favorite for your listening pleasure Let the Good Times Roll.Stubs turned the volume up, hitting the top of the receiver with his yellow pencilas he stood listening to one of his favorite songs. When the refrain began asecond time he sang it out loud: Hey everybody, lets have some fun, you onlylive once, but when youre dead youre done.

The solid rhythm of the music gave him an emotional jolt. And the simplelyrics made him want to pound the keyboard until it hit pay dirt. The DJannounced the time was 9:55 AM at WXBZ the best Country Western stationnorth of Back Bay. Didnt he know it. Hed invested some of his mega profits inthe station of which he was a proud part-owner.

He strolled casually back to the desk beginning to feel good about themornings work. He had a plot, a little joy-juice to keep him going, and theknowledge that one of his fans was right now putting a disk on the spinningwheel to spur him onward.

Sitting back in the chair he picked up the yellow pad and looked at hisnotes. What the book needed was a subplot. Another character who wouldenhance the story line, add to the action, deepen the novel.

He knew where he was headed. It had been one of the highlights of his lifeseveral years ago when he discovered the sister of the inimitable manuscriptwriter vacationing in the region.

Mega scream time! he had shouted at Tip. Blessed be the Belugawhale! Crawl dont walk to the nearest new bank account! THIS ONESGONNA BE OURS!

It was a miracle to discover the living sister of the long-dead manuscriptauthor was available for MORE inspiration. A little background info from thepress, a few taps on the telephone, a subtle investigation by his favoritecongressman and he was all the richer for doubling his pay packet with hissecondfavorite source of inspiration.

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He had made herthe star of several of his best-selling books. It wasunfortunate that she noticed a few awkward details and filed a complaint. Butpublishers thrived on the claim that first published meant yours forever. AndAtheneums lawyers told him he had a vested interest in what they called thechain of titles he and his publisher had produced. Compensation and forfeiture

werent part of the big picture. You got it, you flaunt it, he muttered to himself.Who could she be in this rock-around-the-clock novel he was ruminatingabout? He tapped the yellow pencil on the desk blotter pensively. She could becalled Robertaor Rockin Rapperor Sis Boom Bah. Yeahhe liked that. Shecould be a doughnut maker working in a bakery who tries to help Big Bob find outwhy his guitar strings go zip every time he tries to play one of his deee-luxesonsungh. songs.

He tapped the pencil on his forehead. Neverthink about the father hehadnt met.

He leaned over, jotted a few names on the yellow pad, then ripped the topsheet off and laid it on the blotter. He was starting to roll down the pike to the big

finish with the plot now. No more questions about Can I?which had weigheddown his early novels. Even some of his later novels. Once he got going hedhave the whole world waiting to read this one. Dum-diddy-dum-diddy-dum, hesang sotto voce

He coughed suddenly due to the inadvertent insertion of the soft, pinkeraser in his mouth. It tasted like lead but - he assured himself with a chuckle you couldnt get let poisoning from that.

The black phone on the desk suddenly rang, piercing the silence of theroom like a Fort Knox security alarm. Only a few people had his office number.He knew it wasnt Tip, fastest shop-weasel in the East.

Stalker here, he said non-committally into the receiver.Its Vera. Glad I got you. Hows it going?Her voice had that combination of insincerity and concern he disliked in a

literary agent.Going like a house-afire, he replied smoothly. Soon printers ink will

spread across the sky like the dark embers of a blazing meteor to light up yourday.

Glad to hear it. Thats the best news Ive heard today. Whats the newbook about?

He stared at the black receiver in his hand wishing it would melt. NEVERgive away a plot before its time,he reminded himself.

Fear, my dear Vera, is the fundamental human condition which I intend toplumb to the bottom of its existential depths in my soon-to-be-released novel.

Sounds like a big-screen movie already.Blockbusters are my favorites, he replied nonchalantlyAs long as it works for you. There was a short pause. Well be waiting to

hear about it.Her voice had that quality of forced patience he decided to ignore. Whats

the news from New York? he asked.

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Bill Whelan has a new sci-fi due out next spring. Rappanock is going toplace quotations from it on the websites of major booksellers and offer a reducedprice to anyone who identifies five of them.

Sounds gimmicky, Stubs said, looking over his desk with the brownmanuscript box still open in front of him.

Perhaps, Vera replied. But new media is wreaking havoc in the industrythese days. Only this morning Trade News had a spread on the diversion ofyoung readers into gaming where kids can enter new, imaginary worlds andbecome actual players in a story. Worldwide, its one of the biggest, growingtrends. More than twelve million kids a day play games online those numbersare something to think about.

Hey, everyone a winner, he answered. It was one of his favorite phrasesto use whenever a new book which might compete with one of his was published.

Time to dash, Vera said quickly. Keep us informed about the new book.Gotcha, he replied, putting the receiver back down on the hook.Games.

Even his kids were mad for them. Maybe there was something in that for the new

book. Big books meant big bucks and if there was anything he liked it was bigsales.

He sat back in his chair rolling the yellow pencil between his thumb andforefinger. Then he turned to the MAC on the right side of the desk and pressedthe ON button. Slowly the blank screen began to flicker.

He had the willies thinking of millions of people who would rather play agame like War ChestorChaos Zone than read one of his stories. Was he losingreaders to the new gaming industry? Were his novels going out of style, ready forthe remaindered heap, or worse - recycling?

When the MAC finished loading he leaned forward, his brown hair fallingover his forehead and began typing in a search word. The first game he foundwas called METAJINX!

The webpage had a black velvet backdrop with the name of the gameemblazoned in dripping, silver letters across the screen. He stared at the glowingimage for a minute. Then he glanced at the buttons on the left describing theHistory, Legends, Players, and Objectives of the game. It was a MMRPG aMORPH to him a mega role-playing game where hundreds of people worldwidefought battles against each other to reach a certain level. This one was set in amedieval land of four continents where monsters, ogres, and evil soothsayershad to be beaten by sword, spell, or strategy for a player to win.

Players could choose an avatar a temporary identity drawn from thegames time period - to act for them in combat. Once they entered the virtualreality world they had to fight or be killed. The game offered refuge for players incaves, dungeons, or forests where they could hide or rest. Twenty-four hours aday, players were instructed on how to cast spells, develop new weapons, ortaser the enemy with the click of a mouse. It was war, a simulated world whereevery player had to fight to survive.

About like the real world, he thought. Except in the game you gained skillsfor the bigger conflict outside. He studied the web pages for a long time before

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checking the clock 10:35AM and shuffling out to the kitchen for a fewmoments.

Standing at the kitchen sink he stared out through the double-glazedwindows at the backyard where a huge, dark fir tree spread its sloping branches

out over the ground. He was mesmerized by the images he had seen ofMETAJINX! with its hand-drawn illustrations of snarling wolves, fur-robed druids,and helmeted spear fighters battling for territory, power, or rewards.

It made him think of his last book reviews. They had been good alwaysbetter than goodhe told himself. Potboilerhad been described as a chilling sagasure to inspire fear by the master of the supernatural. But he was worried hemight be losing his audience. Sales had been down the past few years.

He had seen hundreds of such quotes printed on the back of his books toentice the cursory reader to buy one. But reviewers were paid by the press andpublishers for hyperbole. Were they like the printed page a fading genre,destined to die out as the electronic world expanded, spreading its insidious

fingers into every part of the globe, and reader reviews took over?Hadhis reviews been as good as they should be? Was he losing touchwith changes in the marketplace? Were they just telling readers what theywanted to hear?

The seeds of self-doubt gnawed at him. He was a Big Name writer,recognized everywhere. He should keep pace with the high tech shaking up theworld. His novel was about a rock singer who falls into a force-field whichtransmits his music by sound waves, convincing people that hes a star. Was itenough to compete with the electronic universe where instead of reading afantasy novel every person could be a player in a global war game?

He stared at the dark evergreen in the backyard for awhile.It was the old

what ifquestion again. The first one a writer was

supposed to ask at the beginning of a novel. It opened a realm of possibilityabout how a character might react in a certain situation. He could remember theexample from a book on fiction he had read in the college library. What if amountain climber fell into a gorge and stumbled into an undiscovered universefrozen in time?

The question was whether the plot-in-hand was the right one for the times.He suddenly felt the absence of a yellow pencil in his hand and wandered

back into the office to contemplate his still-unsettled novel.

Sitting down in the chair he tossed the pencil from his left hand to his right.Then swiveling in the chair he stared at the blank screen of the MAC. He pulledup a white page and typed the word GAMEPLANon the keyboard. The capitalletters floated in the middle of the white page. What did it mean? What was ittrying to tell him?

He sat back and reached for the brown box. Speak your mind now for Iforever hold your piece he said in a low murmur. He took a new yellow pencilfrom the caddy and waved it once, twice, thrice over the box mumbling the

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names which had given him inspiration that morning. Suddenly a word poppedinto his mind and he wrote it down slowly on the yellow tablet. WARNING.

It was the name of a new game.Turning back to the MAC he scrolled down and typed the word on the next

page. The cursor blinked. Scrolling down once again he typed another word:

Robert. Would it stimulate his mind enough to formulate a new plot? Robert,Robber, Robobox, he typed slowly. With a sudden burst of speed he typed thename Rogerin the middle of the page. He smiled. Roger Stalton would be thename of his new hero.

Who is Roger Stalton? he typed. His fingers answered. A tall, hulkingman, middle-aged, probably a corporate executive who had made $250 millionmaking new media deals. A player in the cut-throat world of games who couldmake a buck with a simple telephone call. Someone much like himself. Acharacter he could relate to. He was pleased.

He leaned back in the cushioned chair and twirled the yellow pencil in hishand. He was on the right path now. What does Roger do?he typed next on

the white page. He looked at the question on the screen and waited for his mindto prompt him with an answer.What if. Roger is a corporate agent in Boston. He wants to negotiate a

deal on a new game called WARNING. A trade magazine has described it aspotentially the hottest new game to hit the market in a decade. The game hasbeen developed by..he glanced over at the yellow pad with a list of names fromthe brown box manuscript.ThomasHenry.Sis Boom Bah.

He smiled at the name of the sister of the manuscript author who doubledthe revenue for his novels. Sis Bah would be the developer of the gamessoftwarean IT typenamed.Sissily. He jotted the name down on the yellowpad. Then he turned to stare at the MAC again.

Now if Sissily was the developer, Roger would have ample opportunity tomake a really fantastic deal for himself he could purchase the game and sell itto a big game producer. Maybe something like Tandem Productions. It would bea battle between the developer (tech-freak Sissily) and the producer (big timegame company) orchestrated by Roger the Supreme Commander. He wouldfight the battle from his office with text messages and win the war withoutstepping outside his office at all.

Tandem Productions would pay Roger big bucks to negotiate the terms ofa deal with Sissily. And Roger would undoubtedly have little trouble convincingTandem that after purchasing the game they could alter it to suit the market.WARNING was only the framework for a game. The elements of the game land, legends, or targets could be changed oras some liked to call it,transformed. That was only cheating a little. But hey, games were big businesstoday.

If Roger wanted to be sure that he could close a good deal for himselfthen he needed to be sure that Sissilys game remained a trade secret. Becauseif information about the game was leaked there might be a million copies madebefore the production process was complete. Then Tandem and Roger could

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lose a fortune. What new is news, whats old may fold, Roger the corporate sharktold himself.

He looked at the story so-far. It was starting to unfold. But it still lackedsomething. What ifthe leaked information about WARNING reached more thanTandem Productions. What ifit reached the game industry? What ifit

reached gamers themselves? That could make every person in the world apotential player in a gigantic war game where only a few could win the biggestprize in a fight for the universe.

He was beginning to feel a new wave of energy come over him. This washis best plot so far -and most of it on his own steam. He felt anxious to starttyping the novel. He reached for the half-eaten yellow pencil on the desk andstuck it slowly behind his right ear. Rubbing his hands together over thekeyboard, he leaned forward to start typing the opening sentence.

Roger Stalton was the biggest thing to hit the game business since Sonyinvented MATRIX.

He continued formulating the story typing on the keyboard.

Roger always took the elevator to his third floor office in one of Bostonsposh neighborhoods. His first task of the day was to contact Tandem Productionsto work out a strategy to acquire a new game which had been discreetlyadvertised for sale in the back pages ofGame News. He knew they had themanufacturing ability and distribution networks to make it one of the biggestsellers in the world.

Stubs was half-way through the first chapter when he looked up andnoticed the clock. 11:15 AM. He was typing faster than he ever had before,caught up in the story which had only just begun to percolate a while ago. Hisfingers were flushed red from the speed of typing. He moved the cursor andprinted out the first pages, watching them fall neatly in a pile beneath the printer.Then he went back to work.

Roger had to send a second-offer text message to Sissily from the blackcell phone in his hand at 11:15 that morning. Tandem Productions and itspurchasing agent Brent Croft had expressed interest in acquiring rights forWARNING. Roger had told them about two telephone calls to industry analystsassuring him that a respected field tester had said the game could zoom to thetop of the market in no time.

Sissily replied that she would wait two more days for bids from othercompanies before making a decision. Roger sent a text message saying Tandemwould meet or beat any offer if she would limit bids to the close of business thatday. Sissily replied she wouldnt close the bidding until she was satisfied that hernewly-developed game would have the best corporate sponsorship available.

Roger spent half an hour talking on the phone with Brent Croft describingthe deal he wanted to make. Time was of the essence in the dog-eat-dog worldof new games. At noon, Croft called to say he had spoken with Sissily andlearned about several new aspects of the game. He was going to consult withcompany personnel. Roger feared that if Croft discussed too many of the detailsof the game with others at Tandem or possibly outside its corporate walls -itmight put a kabosh on the deal.

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Stubs thought he heard the sound of a doorbell ringing somewhere faraway. But his eyes were glued to the MAC. This was the best story hed everwritten and it was pouring out of him like warm honey. He felt ecstatic seeing theblack letters fall on the white page like an endless string of text messages.

Roger Stalton was sending a text message to Brent Croft asking for

details about the game Sissily had released to him. Croft responded with adescription of ten avatars who were leaders in this game of the future set in 2050AD. Roger stared at the text message wondering if it could be read by otherpersonnel at Tandem. If word got out about the avatars in the game his chancesof success might be doomed. Roger tried to call Tandem but Croft was nowhereto be found in the office. He sent a text to Sissily who answered saying she hadnot spoken with Croft in the past hour. But she added - Globe Games hadcontacted her about purchasing WARNING with a very good offer.

At five oclock Roger sat behind his desk staring at a text message fromBrent Croft. He apologized for getting back to him so late but he had been in ameeting all afternoon with Tandem producers. He regretted to say that, While

Tandem is very excited about the new game, we have decided not to pursue itspurchase. Because WARNING has received widespread, pre-release publicitywe have agreed instead to offer its developer a contract for future gamedevelopment.

Roger turned off the black phone in his hand. He would have to start overtomorrow to find another company willing to purchase the game. He stoodlooking out at the street below his office and the tiny figures rushing up and downwith.were they ray guns? He peered out the window to see more clearly. Yes,one man in a trench coat had just hit the sidewalk with his chest blown open andblood streaming out of the wound.

At the other end of the street he could see a woman with an automatic rifleshowering bullets at a line of pedestrians across the street.They fell down likedominos, streams of blood flowing over the sidewalk.

Was he seeing things? Could the release of Sissilys game have causedthis carnage? Were all the office workers in Boston now actual players in a role-

playing game.? Shooting each other on the street for no reason? Were theybrainwashed zombies acting out a new game plan for the future gleaned frominformation spread by mere rumor?

Down on the body-riddled street he could see a man in a tan leather jacketwaving a curved sword over his head. Another man had on a party hat with whitestreamers on the top and was wielding the bumper from a parked car against atrio of men backed up against a store-front window.

They were playing the game! In real life!Roger watched as five men wearing business suits turned the corner at

the far end of the street and began charging a crowd of women huddling by thefront door of an office building with fire axes. A man in a pin-striped suit beganspraying two women who tried to run away with a fire extinguisher. One womanslipped on the foam and was hit by an axe four times before her body split in halfand the legs rolled over the curb.

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Rogers first urge was to flee the city and escape whatever had beenunleashed in the mad minds of its corporate offices. He thought he could climbdown the fire escape at the rear of the building and reach the street. Once therehe would have to find a way to flee the deadly carnage which was going onoutside - hundreds of people playing a game of war and death, win or lose, play

or perish they had learned from a game.Roger stashed the cell phone in his pocket and slinked out the office door.He crept across the wooden floor towards the back passing the elevator on hisright. How could he have begun a simple negotiation this morning and causedthis monstrous phenomenon in which hundreds of people, maybe thousands,maybe even millions might die playing a part in a game which barely existed onpaper?

He was sweating rapidly as he reached the tall, glass window whichopened onto the fire escape. He had to push it four times, grunting with the effort,before he stepped out onto the metal step at the top of the third floor. His handslipped on the railing as he tried to swing himself out onto the top stair. His heart

was beating at a frantic pace when he reached the next level and.There was a sudden flash of light in the room. Stubs closed his eyes asthe sharp shards of metal and plastic shot into his face, over his hands, and ontohis lap. He could feel them cutting into his skin - hundreds of pieces piercing hisflesh, splatters of blood oozing over his skin. He began to choke from the smell ofacrid smoke from the computer. He coughed and coughed, trying to get out ofthe chair while his mouth filled with blood.

An hour later the door opened. Tip peered in to see Stubs body lying backon the padded office chair, his mouth open and his faced etched with spots ofdark, dried-blood. The Mac was blown to bits on the desk and only the intact corddangled from the mangled desk like a snake skin. Across the room flakes ofwhite paper were scattered on which she could see half-burned words. Shestared at the gruesome carnage. He was writing so fast he burned out the BigMac and it exploded in his face.

Copyright, Anne Hiltner, 2009

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