From one editor to another, they start talking about the impending acquisition, who will make the offer and who will live to regret it. And there’s Pendel in wait, ready to bask in what could become a potential bidding war, one that will conclude with yet another career highlight.

  All it took was having one of his authors pass away.

  Chapter 6

  Here’s what I think about Inside. Chelsea does a wonderful job using the metaphor of bodily intrusion to explore the trauma of repeated sexual abuse from a sibling. The manuscript is 58 chapters long, yet really, the source of the story can be trimmed down to about half that number. Here’s a story that is so internalized that every word is clearly that of the protagonist’s thoughts, even when the details are externalized. She is a mailperson living a lonely existence; her friends all work at the post office and talk about her behind her back. This person she meets, her physical and mental identical, harbors a secret. From that excerpt she read at the literary reading, it was clear long before she let me inside who or what this antagonistic character symbolized.

  “He did this to you, didn’t he?”

  That’s okay, she doesn’t need to say anything. Go ahead and ride that high, be lost to the unconscious web of dream and memory. I can take it from here. Some stories need a doctor, and surely, this is going to be exciting for me. A new experience, especially after the disappointment that was J.D. Church. These pages I cut from her story, they’re nonessential. What remains is a lean 200 pages of hurt, and hell, the insides of a person splayed across a story that I now take, with great care, to tell externally.

  “You know, he could have done more than just penetrate her,” I say. “Sex is so blasé. He turns out to be her brother, which adds a notch of discomfort. Incest plus rape is pretty much the worst that can befall a person. But you see where things could shift and become far more menacing and effective, it’s where the idea of ‘inside’ takes on another level.”

  The pages worth keeping are methodically arranged across the floor, her body stripped bare lays there, arms and legs stretched out among her work.

  “To make it a lasting work, it must go beyond the body. It must penetrate the mind.”

  My workshopping should help. She’s going to be a great addition to my body of work. It’s up to me to make it worth it for her. If her life must end here, at least allow her story to lengthen as a tragedy across time itself.

  I kneel next to her chest, her pale skin, ribcage visible, and I whisper, “Your story will be worth telling.”

  Never mind the pages I cut. They go in a metal trash bin. I take them into the bathroom, her tiny little studio apartment smelling of smoke after they are done away with. The smoke detector never sounds, agreeable with the events unfolding.

  I look between her legs, and then again at her breasts. In most stories, these would be touched, adored, violated. I take special interest in her vagina, completely shaved, the slightest blemish on the lips is an indication of the real brother, the real abuse.

  Where’s my knife?

  “Ah yes,” I say, finding it resting on the sofa. “Inside. To get inside, it isn’t about taking this,” I raise the blade, “and inserting it into that,” I point at the area between her legs. There’s a need to make it clear, illustrate what I’m talking about. The blade won’t fit all the way. It only goes a few inches deep, the blood pools around my wrist.

  “Sometimes you just have to get your hands dirty,” I say, chuckling. A single thrust, nothing more, and I let go. The knife remains inserted. By now, she shouldn’t feel a thing. The dose flowing through her veins will take her somewhere close, slowing her heart until she reaches that last breath.

  “What’s more interesting,” I continue, this time crawling over to her head. “Is what goes on in this mind, any mind at all. To get inside someone’s head, you need to do more than what your body shows. You need to take a peek.”

  The knife, oh right. I reach between her legs and remove it, taking a moment to inspect the bodily fluids sticking to the blade. The blood is thick, almost black.

  Blood pools, and I must move quickly, not wanting any of the pages to be ruined.

  Checking her pulse, she doesn’t have long now. Up to me, now, to expose what’s inside. “The brother should have gone beyond the superficial torture. He should have understood the intimacy of an internal organ, being able to hold it, and best of all, understand its importance.”

  When she’s no longer breathing, I begin making my edits. The blade works well against her pale skin. Once that’s removed, I can pay better attention to what lies in wait.

  An odor casts itself across the apartment.

  “These are details that could really add to the power of your story.”

  One minor slip and it’s the contents of her stomach pouring out. A blend of acids and alcohol, a partially digested burger, it flows. I take a step back, keen to remain vigilant, not wanting to waste a good observation. Details, details, details…

  “Every single organ, exposed.”

  Ever hold a heart in your hands? No more of the figurative, the impression, rather the actual heart, the very thing that retains life? No, few do. But in Boll’s story, here’s the heart. I hold it in my hands, the warmth and weight of it palpable, something unforgettable.

  “You got to make sure that ends up in the story.”

  Don’t lose those kinds of details.

  The brother violated, the brother took and left trauma, but he never understood what it takes to go inside, really inside. When I get to the climax, the most important part of the story, I know it’ll require more than this blade. Thankfully, she’s done a little cooking. Saves time, seeing that she’s got a bone saw. That’ll come in handy.

  “To get inside, you need to see, touch, feel, understand the mind itself.”

  First attempt at cutting, my grip slips, the saw partially slicing her scalp. I wash my hands and give it a second attempt; it’s better than the first. It takes a lot of effort to get inside of a mind, but I’m not about to do her wrong. I get through, and seeing it, the brain exposed, it’s a sight to behold. Seldom do you ever hear what it looks like, its hue, and the smell…

  “The final act consists of a callback,” I say, before making the first cut.

  After skin and muscle, there is only organ and bone. Remove the extraneous and you’re left with an entirely new sight, something previously unrecognizable.

  The best parts of her novel will debut as a decimation of her dead body.

  Every organ, and every vertical slice of her brain, will be found placed one on top of each other, each given a chapter. Each set of pages acts as a plate, an offering. Take your pick, she’s an open book, ready for your understanding.

  I can’t help but grin when it’s over. I think I did a good job as an editor and story doctor. Every indication of the superficial, her skin and her looks, gone; all that remains is what’s inside.

  I’m glad to have done right by her, and to have made Chelsea Boll a masterpiece.

  People will clamor over my body of work for clues, for answers, for inspiration. They won’t know what to think, and they won’t be able to look away.

  Chapter 7

  Pendel has never been the patient type. None of the editors have circled back and submitted their offers. Hendrix better give him what he wants. This is no joking matter. When Pendel manufactures urgency, you need to comply. This is about money. This is about power. This is about how Pendel can’t sit in his own skin. After a good 20 minutes of repeatedly refreshing his inbox, Pendel needs to direct his anxieties elsewhere. Elsewhere meaning, what else? Social media. His notifications are forever maxed out, a ceaseless red that has become almost too easy to ignore. He scrolls through the timeline, making note of the day’s literary discourse.

  Fiction writers are talking about word counts again, what constitutes a short novel from a regular-sized novel. The hot takes vary but the vitriol is, for Pendel, predictable and borderline sad. So many writers seeking some clarity getting caught up in the weeds, becoming part of a conversation that goes in circles with only a handful climbing out of it with a viral post. The academic writers are busily expressing their annoyance with an article about fomites and how they work. The article was published by a reputable publication, yet its contents are rife with misinformation. It has sparked another debate about the continual dissolution between fact and fiction, cited sources and fluff pieces.

  He notes J.D. CHURCH trending. The algorithm spits out the most relevant posts. People are still sharing their adoration, their grief, for the newly deceased author. Good, he thinks. Things are still fresh, perfect timing on an incredibly lucrative deal. If you scroll down a little bit, the beginnings of what will be Church’s dark side are coming up for discussion and debate. The allegations won’t go away, especially because, well, Professor Church made more than a few mistakes, hurt a lot of people, and let the power and prestige get to his head.

  But Pendel doesn’t scroll that far down. Instead, he keeps clicking around, hunting for something that might be spicy enough for a little schadenfreude. His favorite.

  Where’s the latest trainwreck?

  A fairly well-known author is having a little bit of a meltdown, something about how they found out that they are blacklisted due to not selling enough books. Other authors chime in, expressing similar situations, how the whole industry is broken. One editor offers advice, definitely a bad move, because the author of the original post goes off, a caustic attack done up by a repost that looks like it’ll go viral.

  Pendel grins, seeing the irony of the entire act. Initially, it’ll put the editor on blast. People will get so worked up that some will take sides and declare that they will never let their agent submit to the editor’s employer, a mid-sized independent publisher in business for nearly 50 years. They aren’t a new publisher on the block. Some people will go so far as to reach out to authors who worked with the editor. Yet as the anger begins to subside, as soon as a few hours after the initial virility of the attack, the author of the original post will be the one who looks worse. Editors watching in silence on the sidelines will take notes. Don’t want to work with that author. Steer clear. Same goes for Pendel. Once upon a time, if he found out that the author didn’t have representation, he would have offered to sign them. Now?

  “Hell no,” he mutters, moving away from that mess.

  Refresh inbox. No offers. Come on, Hendrix.

  The other editors, whatever; this isn’t really about them. Alfred A. Wolf has an opportunity to single-handedly ride the J.D. Church wave. Talking millions of books, millions of dollars. Just give Pendel what he wants. Meet his demands.

  Checking his DMs, it’s pretty much what he expects. Authors try to ask if he’s open for queries. Authors trying to cozy up with Pendel, some trying the whole saw you post about tactic, attempting to bridge a gap, a boundary that Pendel has always built up. So what if he replied to their post, maybe offered a comment? These are authors of varying desperation. Sprinkled through are media requests, some bots, the usual. At least one attempt by a publisher, typically an indie, reaching out (why via DM though?) about potentially meeting, having lunch. One of those typical publisher-agent industry meet-and-greets, hoping to get on Pendel’s submission list. Editors seeking the upper crust. Editors and authors trying to survive. Of course, they’re going to try to reach where Pendel stands, a top agent looking down at the competition.

  He’s about to mass delete all the DMs when he sees one that catches his eye.

  “That didn’t go well, did it?”

  What didn’t go well? Reading it again, Pendel’s mind can’t help but string together two disparate topics. Church’s passing, Detective Monroe. He checks the user profile, but it’s an obviously fake name, “Deadly Reads,” profile picture and the entire grid of posts consisting of book photos glamorously strung together with different slightly on-topic accessories. Your typical social media influencer fare. The account has under 200 followers.

  Still, he just can’t not say anything, and bothering to reply will be yet another poor decision, something Pendel will regret.

  “Who is this?”

  The original DM disappears, which disturbs Pendel, causing him to search around the platform, looking into privacy settings, and then finally doing a Google search, which yields the truth. The account has chosen to engage in vanishing mode. The DMs, once seen, disappear. The information sets him off, “I demand to know who this is.”

  “Just another author bemoaning the loss of a great one, while also disappointed in the publishing industry’s treatment of such a grave loss.”

  Pendel falls right into the trap, “Yeah well this is an industry, a business, and it’s about making money. Authors can value the craft all they want, but we need something that can sell. Church sells, and even better, he sells well in death too.”

  DMs disappearing…

  “Tell me who this is.”

  He receives a thinking emoji, chin tilted upwards, eyes squinting. He’s being doubted, and that’s one of Pendel’s triggers—being judged as something less.

  “Tell me who this is so I can ensure that I never respond to your query!”

  The author starts typing and then stops. A pause, and then, the message in full: “It sucks being stood up. Trusting someone and then having it end in rejection. Sucks that it happens all the time to authors. How often have you been stood up, rejected?”

  Pendel snaps, “That’s it, I’m reporting this account.”

  The DM disappears, leaving him with no evidence for Benji, no further steps to take. Pendel is stuck, blinded by his rage.

  It’s all part of the vanishing act. Pendel is in the mist, lost and being led by his emotions. This won’t end well, and worst of all, this is only the beginning.

  “I’ll give you 60 seconds,” Pendel says. “59, 58, 57…” With every subsequent DM, the paper trail fades.

  Chapter 8

  I’m often surprised at how easy it is to get under someone’s skin. Pendel finally answers my DM. Took him long enough. Yet it doesn’t take any more than a single DM to tap into the inner hostility, the demon within.

  “25, 24, 23…”

  He’s counting down, demanding my identity. But what’s the fun in that? I’m looking to drag this out, pull every nail from its bed, one by one. Like any good story, you must take special care in setting up the big reveal, the double cross, the truth that becomes fully realized after a series of deceptive acts.

  Pendel makes for a great character. He assumes he’s the center of every story, the protagonist, the very thing that breathes life into any story. Everyone learns the hard way…

  How about a bit of a rude awakening?

  “Did you like the pages?”

  He stops counting down and I watch as the text bubble flickers. The guy must be surging with anxiety and anger. I can almost feel it from here, this coffee shop just down the street from Cooper Willis Endeavor’s office. I like to be near, in some way, you know?

  Sometimes it can be tricky, especially when I’m busy working, but I find that inspiration really comes to me when I can almost see it happening all around me.

  His reply is terse, the guy is just not getting it, “I demand to know who this is.”

  “Ah, you didn’t read them.”

  It’s just too easy.

  “Last chance, or I’m going to report you.”

  “Would you like me to resubmit?”

  “Okay, that’s it. You’re going to be reported.”

  “That’s A-okay with me,” I say.

  Everything vanishes, leaving him with this odd interaction, a glimpse of things to come. We’ll talk more, and he’ll turn to the social media platform. I’ll get an email, but nothing will happen. If Deadly Reads dies, I’ve got plenty of alt-accounts.

  Like the detective said…

  “We’ll be in touch.”

  Oh! How nice. My second acceptance. Denver Review wants to publish my story, “Insides.” Think of the story like I think of Chelsea, my own muse, a perfect a memory to hold close. I had to write about it. The toxic sibling rivalry, the abuse, and the biggest reveal of all: what both characters carry within them. The editors loved the story. At a breezy 2500 words, I don’t dawdle on much. It’s intense, because to make a statement, you kind of have to, you know?

  But yeah, this is great news.

  The body of work adds up and only helps with the eventual deal(s) to follow.

  Gives me even more motivation to keep moving forward. Who will it be? Really, I already know. A glimpse at Pendel’s deal report, and if it isn’t Church, it’s got to be the author next up, Brendon Kawada. Lucky me. Looks like Brendon Kawada is very online.

  I’m going to be his biggest fan.

  His latest post, “The secret to being productive is being too poor to do anything else,” and you just know I have to comment on it. Different account, Deadly Reads, you did well enough. I’ll be Courtney Haim. They got an AI app for everything, be it a profile picture or header, it’s all a click away, and there is no reason to waste any time; I let the AI fill in the blanks so I can step forward, a single comment, modest, “So true. I live paycheck to paycheck. There’s no such thing as a day off.” Kawada sympathizes with a quick and highly informal, “Truth, I feel you.”

  I’m already in. Jaw clenched, it’s a tense back and forth, being careful yet clear enough that I’m yet another author, one who admires him. There’ll be a DM, one where I discuss how excited I am to read Mechanical Animals.

  “I just can’t wait!”

  Kawada is new, a debut author, so the flattery works wonders. It sinks right in. Frankly, I’m surprised at how easy it is for Kawada to open up. It goes from congratulations to talking about how I’m an emerging author. Giving a link to the story in the London Review helps. Mentioning that the Denver Review just accepted my story creates a noticeable pang of jealousy.