The Story Bridge

(In this 2,700-word story, I've tried to offer an updated take on the "magic shop" type of story.)

After typing “creative writing groups” in the Google search box, Susan Plume sat back in her leather office chair and awaited as the magical algorithms cast their cyber nets, hauled the bounty to her iMac, and displayed them on the 20-inch monitor. Susan blinked, and within the nanosecond her eyes were closed, more than 5 million possible answers to her search queued in the search engine.

Susan Plume had stories to tell. At 35, and after working seven years as a stockbroker, she was starting to feel her true calling was slipping past her. She believed she was destined to write, to be an author, a storyteller. In college, Susan had done well in her creative writing courses, but business was her major, and after graduation, the lure of big money over road her creative dreams. But dreams have a way of resurfacing as years pass, and like a biological clock; Susan’s need to create life out of words had resurfaced like a long-dormant seed. Now, she felt she needed support, encouragement, and nurturing to coax out and polish her tales. She could have enrolled in a writing class at the local college, but preferred to seek help online, anonymously, with veterans and tyros alike.

At first, five million possibilities seemed daunting to Susan. How could she possibly choose a group that was right for her? With so many sites available, some were undoubtedly scams, set up to bleed dreams dry. Susan had done well in her business, making herself and her clients rich. Selling and trading stocks, bonds, and commodities required good research, but the crux of the business was intuition, you put your money down and let the wheel spin. Susan allowed her intuition take over, and on the fifth page of the Google search, an entry titled “The Story Bridge” jumped out at her and wrapped its arms around her head. “We help make your stories come to life,” promised the short description following the title. Susan clicked on the link and was taken to a web page featuring a dark blue background, a graphic keyboard, and an invitation to fill out a form to be considered for membership. The form was simple, aside from basic information such as name, e-mail address, and experience, it asked for a sample story and an answer to the question, “Why do you want to be a writer?”

Susan decided to go ahead with the process. She filled in the basic information, and then pasted in a short story she had written in college about a swimming pool; it was titled “The Swimming Pool.” Before she answered the “why do you want to be a writer,” question, Susan thought for few minutes then wrote, “So I can create new worlds.”

After clicking on the “send” button, a new screen appeared which bore the message: “Thank you for submitting your application to The Story Bridge. Please give us a few days to process your request for membership.”

During the course of the next few days, Susan Plume checked her e-mail more frequently than normal, hoping to hear something from the writing website. In high school and college and in her career, Susan had been popular, athletic, and self-confident, but since sending off her application, she had more empathy for those kids in school who were the last few hoping to be chosen when sides were picked for games and sports. Finally, on Thursday at 3:17 p.m., Susan’s computer notified her she had received a message from The Story Bridge. She clicked on the e-mail and read:

Dear Susan,
Your application has been accepted. Welcome to The Story Bridge. Although your story, “The Swimming Pool,” contained a number of punctuation errors, we thought it was interesting and compelling. We feel you could also use some work on your descriptive language.
The next step in the process for full membership is for you to submit an original story--no more than 5,000 words--to us by Monday afternoon. This will give you four days to write your story. Once your story is posted, our members will review and critique it within two days. Good luck in creating your “new world.”

Sincerely,
H.P.

Susan did not expect a second audition and felt a bit of ire rising within her. It did not last long. She decided this development was a good thing; after all if the group was this picky about its membership, it was probably a place where she would learn to hone her chops. Before she left her office for the day, Susan told her boss she was taking Friday and Monday off.

New worlds moved through Susan’s head the rest of the afternoon, making it hard for her to concentrate on her work. Her mind was searching for stories, not stock deals. That evening, in her apartment, she sketched out plots and scenarios and characters, discarding some, retaining others until she felt she had aligned the right sequence of literary DNA that would help her create a formidable tale by which her critics would judge her. After a glass of Pinot Grigio, Susan fell asleep and let the chemistry of creation bubble away in her mind.

Friday morning, fortified with yogurt, toast, and strong Columbian coffee, Susan Plume pulled words out of her head and deposited them on the keyboard of her iMac. With a clear picture of the finished product in her head and the tools of a writer’s trade on her desk, Susan spent the next two days crafting her story. The magic of writing engulfed her. The art of giving an idea life took hold, and she pursued it doggedly.

By late Sunday afternoon, Susan Plume had given birth to a 4,700-word story. It has all its limbs and fingers and toes, and it seemed healthy. It would, however, need to be cleaned. Susan spent Sunday night and Monday morning scrubbing her story, washing away unnecessary bits and pieces and dressing it in the right punctuation.

At 12:27 p.m. on Monday, Susan typed “The Crash” at the top of the first page of her story, and then sent it off to The Story Bridge. Immediately after she hit the “send” key, she felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment and confidence. Susan ordered in Chinese food to celebrate, but by the time it arrived, her confidence level had dropped dramatically. It irritated her that she wanted to please a group of people she didn’t know; they could be a group of high-school students after all, or, the group might not be a group at all, just some weirdo with the initials H.P. But the fact remained, she did want to be accepted into the group; she wanted to be—even at a distance—among people who bled words.

Susan puttered about her apartment the rest of the afternoon tidying up and doing laundry, anything to keep her from thinking about the story and whether it would be accepted. A little past 7:00 that evening, after a light meal and a long bath, Susan decided to catch up on some correspondence and returned to her computer. Upon opening her mailbox, she began scanning her inbox. The third entry, just below an offer of penis enlargement and above a notice that she had won the Swedish lottery, she saw the words, “The Story Bridge.” This was highly unexpected; the last e-mail from H.G. stated it would take two days for the group to read and critique her story. She was sure this was not a good sign. Click.

Dear Susan,
Thank you for submitting your story, “The Crash.” Although we normally take a few days to assess submissions for full membership, we found your story to be exceptional and would be honored to have you as a member.
In less than 5,000 words, you’ve managed to create a compelling magical-realism thriller, complete with finely drawn characters. Using a timely subject such as stock market manipulation to explore the depths of evil even the most altruistic of us can descend was brilliant.
Congratulations for a job well done. We are going to publish “The Crash” tomorrow. Welcome to the writer’s world.

Best of luck,
H.G.

Susan Plume was stunned. She was going to be published. She was a real author. Of course, she thought, there was no mention of pay, but that doesn’t matter for now. What mattered to her was people who knew good writing had accepted her, and now she was considered by them to be a peer. “Brilliant” was the word H.G. had used to describe her story. It was then that Susan knew in her heart it would not be long before she would make the transition from stockbroker to fulltime author.

Buoyed by her success, Susan spent the remainder of the evening e-mailing friends and family about the news of story being published. She attached a copy of “The Crash” to every e-mail she sent. By the time midnight rolled around, Susan had written and sent 47 e-mails and drank a bottle of Yellowtail merlot. She undressed and floated beneath the sheets on her bed, soon drifting off to dream of book tours.

At 10:02 Tuesday morning, Susan Plume opened her left eye and swiveled it towards the nightstand next to her bed. She blinked. She blinked again. A third blink wiped away enough overnight eye slime for her to see the digital readout on the nightstand clock. “Damn,” she yelled, “I’m late for work.”

Speed dressing and rapid makeup application were not Susan’s strong points, but after a quick shower, she completed both tasks as rapidly as possible. Grabbing her briefcase, she left her 12th floor apartment, waited briefly for the elevator to arrive, and made it out of the building and into a taxi. By the time she reached the offices of Bricklin & Sutton, the brokerage for which she worked, it was a few minutes shy of 11:00. As Susan rushed past the reception area of the firm, Tina, the receptionist, called out, “Anna, there are two policemen waiting in your office. They’ve been there for a while.”

“Anna? Who is Anna?” thought Susan as she stopped by the coffee machine long enough to fill a Styrofoam cup with late-morning java dregs. When she opened her office door, Susan stopped short. There were two men sitting inside. One of them, a slender, redhead with hollow cheeks and a cheap suit was sitting at her desk scrolling through her computer files. The other man, dark, bulky and seemingly asleep was in one of the chairs in front of her desk. At the sound of her entrance, the redhead looked up.

“What, what the hell is going on here?” demanded Susan. “There are confidential files on that computer. Who are you people?”

The redhead looked at her for a moment. “I’m Agent Bellflower, and that’s my partner, Agent Cano. We’re from the Treasury Department. Have a seat next to my partner Miss Caffington. We need to ask you a few questions.”

Puzzlement flooded Susan’s face. “Please, Anna,” said Bellflower, “this is quite serious. Have a seat.”

“I think you have the wrong person,” Susan tried to explain. “I’m not Anna Caffington. I’m Susan Plume. This is my office. I don’t know any Anna Caffington.” As Susan spoke those words, something at the back of her mind began to itch. “It’s the wine,” she thought, remembering last night’s celebratory bottle of merlot. God, I must have the worst hangover imaginable; I’m hearing things.”

“Save the B.S. Anna,” said Agent Cano, who still appeared to be sleeping. “We know who you are. Now sit down.”

“You guys have made a hell of a mistake, or someone has put you up to this, but I am not this Anna person. Now this is my office, and I’ve got work to do, so please leave.”

“What does it say on your office door, Anna?”

The door was still open, and Susan turned her head to look. About five feet from the floor, in the middle of the door, was a brass plate that read, “Anna Caffington, Stockbroker.” Susan’s mouth dropped open, and the itching got worse.

Confused, Susan closed the door and sat next to Agent Cano. It was Agent Bellflower who delivered the next bit of news. “We know who you are Anna. In fact, we know all about you. For instance, we know you’ve been having an affair with your boss, Jeremy Steiner.”

Susan started to tell them her boss’s name was Roger Twain, not Jeremy Steiner, and Roger was gay. However, the name Jeremy Steiner sounded familiar, so she waited to hear what was coming next.

Agent Bellflower casually leaned back in Susan’s leather chair. “We also know Steiner conspired with three sub-prime lenders, an administration official, and two of the most powerful banks in the country to manipulate the stock market and cause financial devastation for millions of people. We know for a fact that Steiner illegally profited to the tune of 4 billion dollars.”

All this information was coming too fast. In her hung over condition and with no morning coffee, Susan was having difficulty processing all of it. What was worse, some of it rang true.

“One other thing we know is Jeremy Steiner is dead. He was shot through his right eye with a small caliber weapon in his bedroom, sometime late Saturday night or early Sunday morning. Interestingly enough, his wife was out of town and has a solid alibi. Luckily for us, Mr. Steiner’s eyes were open when he was shot. Although the right eye was decimated, the boys from the Federal Department of Memories were able to scan the left eye and should be able to tell us in a day or two who was in the bedroom with him.”

Susan shook her head. “You are absolutely crazy. Department of memories? There’s no such thing. As for the rest of your story….” Susan halted in mid sentence.

“Tell us Anna, where were you Saturday night?”

Susan’s mind felt like it had rubbed up against poison ivy. “I, uh, uh, I was at my apartment writing. I was writing a short story about…. Oh my God!”

“Can anyone verify you were there? Did you have anyone over; did you go out to eat or to the grocer’s?”

Susan was afraid to breathe, afraid to make the slightest movement. Finally, closed her eyes and asked, “Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet,” replied Agent Cano.

“If I’m not under arrest, I want to go home and call a lawyer.”

The two agents exchanged glances. “Ok, Anna, you can go for now,” said the redhead. “Agent Cano will drive you.” He produced a folder. “This is a federal warrant. It gives me the right to go through all your computer records and anything else I find in your office. We have also applied for a search warrant for your apartment, so well be visiting you at home soon. And Anna, please don’t get any ideas about leaving the city. That would end badly for you.”

On the way back to her apartment, Agent Cano tried to ask more questions, but Susan refused to answer, keeping her eyes shut, and chanting the mantra, “I can’t believe this is really happening.”

As Susan was exiting the federal agent’s car, he leaned over and said, “You know Anna, I don’t really care that this guy Steiner is dead. His greed will probably cause a stock market crash that will shake the financial foundation of this country. What I don’t like is murderers, especially those who murder for money.” As Susan started to turn, Agent Cano winked at her and added, “You have any offshore bank accounts Anna?”

Inside her apartment, Susan threw her briefcase on the sofa, ran into her home office, and powered up the iMac. While waiting for the machine to come alive, she said over and over, “I just wanted to create stories, not a life.”

When the iMac was operational, she typed www.thestorybridge into the address box. Within seconds she was taken to a plain, white page on which the following words were displayed, “Error 404. This page does not exist.”

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