NOVEL NEXT 295: A Mythical Land Called Florida
</PLEASE READ THIS NOTE FROM AYELA.>
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"To Sam: poet and prophetess," HC raised his wine glass my direction. We were settled in a corner table at Mario's where the restaurant atmosphere was intimate, warm, and slightly formal.
Yes, HC favored Hawaiian shirts, so you can guess what he was wearing. Paddy and Rhoda joined him in raising their wine glasses, but I wasn't so sure.
"Prophetess?"
"Not only was your poem 'Unwritten Dreams' a contest winner, but it suggested that something bad was coming. Then you went and dreamt that you covered yourself in fire accelerant and pulled the trigger to set it ablaze, and we know what happened next. So, from where I sit, you are attuned to something beyond this world. Am I right, ladies?"
Paddy nodded, "There was never a doubt in my mind about that. The chills I got reading your poems were unmistakable, Sam."
I giggled nervously, "Ooookay, and Rhoda?"
She shook her head, "I din't know about the dream, and I dunno about the rest either, but there's something magical about the way you write Moons Dancing. And when you told me what it really means, well, that's something so much deeper than anyone ever expects from a romance novel. But I sure as hell would like to think that it's something we can find in real life. So, bring your stories to life, Samantha Mooneyhan. I, for one, will be cheering for you every step of the way."
"Agreed," HC said as our chicken manicotti arrived.
Perfection in creamy bite after bite. Garlic, spinach, cheese, and delicate chicken rolled into pasta and covered in cream sauce to delight the senses. More, please.
"Have you looked at the prize yet, Sam?"
"What, you want me to stop eating this heaven on a plate to see about the contest?"
He nodded.
"My Nanna always said 'No screens at the table,' but if you're that worked up about it . . ." I hovered my pad to the side and tapped it open, taking another bite of manicotti fabulousness.
Ummm. I didn't much care about the contest, but HC'd been right. There was a DM in my Purple Road account from a name I didn't recognize.
Ayela Scarsdale-
Thank you for entering the 2859 Purple Road Poetry Contest. On behalf of the panel of judges and the staff of Purple Road, I would like to express our sincere congratulations. You are the winner of Day 2 of the contest.
As you are likely aware, this affords you a free one-year subscription to the Author Plus features, and that prize has already been applied to your account.
Congratulations, Ayela Scarsdale,
Sibsil Creed
PS: On a personal note, I can say that I admire your skill as a word smith, and I hope to see more of you in the future. - Bitsy Joon
"What a cool name! I think if my name was Bitsy Joon, I'd write it all over the stars, wouldn't you guys?"
"I would if it were spelled J-O-O-N," HC said emphatically.
"That's exactly what she wrote! How'd you know, HC?" I demanded.
His eyebrows were climbing his forehead, and he waved for the pad. I flipped it around for him.
"Interesting," he mused softly then pulled out his own pad, forgetting everything else, including his dinner. "So, is this from Sibsil Creed or from Bitsy Joon?"
Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
HC was smiling, staring at the pad, rubbing his beard with one hand, and muttering to himself. It looked like he was lost in a mystery that put delight in his eyes.
"Hmmmm. And the plot thickens," HC mumbled, scrolling his screen.
I was already swallowing another bite of manicotti, and I reached for my wine glass, but before I could take a sip, HC's look of triumph had me pausing with my glass halfway to my lips.
"You. Will. Never. Guess. Who. Bitsy. Joon. Really. Is."
"The governor of Texas?" Paddy asked blinking excited eyes like a deranged squirrel.
"The Art Guild Minister of Milky Way!" Rhoda beat the table with her fist.
"Oh, we're all comediennes tonight, are we?" HC rolled his eyes.
"No, my dear ladies, Bitsy Joon is, in fact, a real person. There's a Sibsil Creed who has been the President of Known Cosmos Earth Press for a hundred years. And now, Sibsil Creed has intentionally told you her name, Sam. I strongly suspect that this is a relative of the people who published my Red Phoenix graphic novels decades ago!" he sang with a flourish.
"WHAT?!" I squeaked, all thoughts of manicotti forgotten.
HC just raised his eyebrows and nodded arrogantly. Bastard. Like he organized the whole damn thing or something. Wait a minute. My face fell.
"Did you do this? Behind the scenes? Tell them? Fix the contest?"
HC's face contorted in genuine horror, "What, Sam? No, dear gods, I would never do anything like that. I promise you; I had no idea."
My breaths slowed. Right. Still a little too jumpy. Finger off the trigger, Sam, take a breather.
I shook my head, "Sorry. Sorry, HC. I didn't mean to accuse you, I—"
"It's okay, Sam, we understand. Someone's been screwing with you. It's alright to be suspicious, and probably a good thing," Rhoda soothed.
I was suddenly sick of it all and wanted to run outside for fresh air, but the thought of the hot, thick Miami night wasn't refreshing either. I downed the rest of my wine glass instead.
"Well, sometimes I think I have a way with words, then I inevitably step in horse shit and find out the truth. I'm sorry, Sam. Can I re-imagine this scenario with you for a minute? I saw that message from Bitsy Joon, and to me, it reads like an invitation," HC explained.
"She's trusting you with her secret identity, which her family has kept hidden for over a century. She wants you to contact her, and I can tell you that my interactions with them led me to believe they were good people, and the Press is fantastic to work with. I haven't approached publishers about Shapeless Poetry yet since it is still in its infancy, but they are my top pick. So, contacting Bitsy is a natural step—"
I cut him off. "Step to what, HC? Publishing a poetry collection? I mean, sure, I bet they can't wait to put my ass-cheek-steak genius out to the 9 Galaxies."
He laughed, "Well, considering their other animations like Eclipse Chasers Up The Rear, I wouldn't rule out an irreverent horror comedy, Sam."
"You could publish that 'Murder Pizza' story too, HC, and revolutionize the Known Cosmos Earth Press," Rhoda commanded.
"It is a day for macabre comedy fictions. I say the two of you drink a few more, and then get to work," Paddy agreed, snickering.
The laugher felt good and brushed away the anxiety that'd crept down my spine in recent minutes.
"Sad thing is, all of that just sounds too much like real life right now," Rhoda mourned. "I mean, we still don't know how all of this Discord madness is gonna play out, and you two can't be the only ones they've targeted. How many people are sitting at home, thinking they're talking to friends, laughing, swapping stories, talking about their kids—"
"Posting lunch pics," HC added.
"And butt pics," I grieved.
"Exactly, and having no idea that it's gonna all wind up on other servers. Probably over and over. Copied ad infinitum for all to see. They don't know, and how're we gonna tell them?" Rhoda bemoaned.
And just like that, I knew.
"Me. I do it. I tell them. Isn't everyone always saying that my writing is like a fever dream? And that I do first person narrative like it's the most natural thing you could read?"
"I can do it. Tell my story. Make it funny. Comedy, like you keep telling me Rhoda. Then give it a twist like my favorite K-dramas. A funny, quirky gal, ignorant of all things gamer-related joins Discord and goes slowly mad as the people she thought were friends turn against her," I said dramatcally.
"Brilliant. Genius. When do you start, Sam?" HC asked.
"What?! I've gotta finish Moons Dancing, or at least the first volume before—"
"No, no you don't gotta anything! Except this story. Write like you've never written before, Samantha Mooneyhan. My house, the resort, my mother's. Wherever you want to be, get there, and don't stop until the synopsis is finished and you've got five chapters drafted. I will accept nothing less from you. Do you understand me?"
"What are you, my grandpa?" I scoffed.
"No, a retired high school teacher with adjunct courses at the community college, and I am telling you that you are writing this story. Working title? Don't even try to pretend it isn't on the tip of your tongue."
I didn't have to hesitate; HC was right. It was already there like it'd been placed the moment I was born. "Discordant."
HC banged the table, "Yes! You've got it! Alright, we're done here. I'll tell them to pack up the food and have it ready to go. Where are you writing, Sam?"
"Your grandma's basement. I mean, isn't that the source of your every inspiration?"
"If you and the spiders wanna sweat your nads off in mother's cellar, then I'm not stopping you. By all means, use it as a metaphor for your every suffering. Fantastic setting. Let the scent of rank and mildew inspire you to new heights," HC smirked.
"Let us be away, then. I can already feel my fingers dancing over the keys," I agreed.
No, I didn't write this book sweating my swampy ass off in a cellar in Miami. I started it in the Seaside Resort, looking out over the vast ocean while my best friend videoed her son and told him all about dolphins and starfish and hot summer nights in a mythical land called Florida, promising him that he'd get to build a sandcastle on the beach one day.
Don't worry. The story doesn't end there; I've got magical things to tell ya coming up!
