| Mystery and Crime Fiction posted April 5, 2014 |
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A short story contest entry. Write about this picture.
Hello, I'm John Grisham
by michaelcahill
Some women walk seeking attention. It is a practiced dance that transmits a message. Then there is the rare woman that demands attention without seeking it. They walk and the earth dances to the rhythm of their steps. Such a woman approached me that evening. Not that she approached me specifically. There was an individual along her chosen pathway who happened to be me. My decision to be an interesting obstacle was immediate.
She had a manuscript in her hand and the hotel was crawling with writers. We were there to network, take some classes and take in a lecture by John Grisham, the bestselling author.
I stepped forward and spoke to her, "are you here for the Grisham lecture?"
She stopped smoothly. She spoke clearly and didn't seem surprised by my sudden interruption of her walk. "Oh, no. I couldn't afford all of this. I just decided to come to the bar and see if I could strike up a couple friendships with some fellow authors. Are you a writer?"
"Yes, I am." I extended my hand. "Hello, I'm John Grisham."
She didn't blush or show signs of being surprised.
She responded in a sexy, not quite whispered, voice, "goodness me, this is awkward isn't it? Well, I certainly know your work. But, I confess, I have never seen a picture of you. I'm I bit at a loss for words. I suppose that doesn't speak well of me as a fledgling writer."
Excellent. She had the charm turned up all the way and she was no amateur. I had left myself the option of laughing off my introduction as a silly joke. But now, seeing as though she appeared to be buying it, I pursued it. My God, what a silly feeling. I felt quite insane attempting this ruse. But, she couldn't be more attractive. I imagine driving a buggy naked through Amish country would produce a similar sensation.
"Can I offer you a drink? I can give you the condensed two hundred dollar lecture at no charge."
"Sharing a drink would be fine. The lecture would be a nice bonus though!" She smiled and laughed, as though laughter was a newly discovered form of music.
I was a writer, but John Grisham might be considered a bit more accomplished. He had considerably more sales than my meager output of zero. No doubt, zero was also below his number of published manuscripts as well. Christ, I sure as hell hoped he didn't show up here for a nightcap.
"I try to keep as low a profile as possible. Writing authentically involves meeting people that are involved with my subject matter. To get a real point of view, it has to be as an equal. Coming in as a famous writer to do an interview doesn't get a real response. You see what I mean, right?" Hell, that sounded pretty damn good, I thought to myself.
"It makes perfect sense, John. I'm sure if they know it's you, they're going to embellish. It would be filled with hyperbole." She furrowed her brow.
She had an intelligent look on her face. Funny how that can't be faked. Even someone that actually is intelligent can't feign intelligence.
You're lucky you have incredible legs, my dear. "Indeed, that's the perfect word, feign. A brick layer suddenly becomes a builder of pyramids." I'm impressed with the rest of you too, darlin'. "So, what's your book about?" May as well see if I can get you up to my room.
"Oh, I don't want you to feel obligated to look at this." she held it up as though it were a baby with brittle bone disease. "I wouldn't want to put you out. I'm sure you get manuscripts thrown at you every day."
Actually, at my level of literary acumen, the hinges to my study remain rusty and yearning for a creaking. Hey! I need to write that down. I'm just hoping that this document is in some form of discernable English and not a holistic sleep remedy.
"Never let it be said that knowing the author isn't a big plus in getting some extra attention. I believe in fate." Her hand remained in mine.
She gave my hand a belated, but not too vigorous shake, as though after consideration she had thought it through.
She spoke as if confessing a sin, "I'm Nonette, by the way. Nonette Tatone. Most call me Noni."
"Noni, I like that. It brings to mind an exotic woman a shipwrecked man finds on a deserted island. Noni, the exotic mesmerizing island woman. It is said that one look at her and civilization is no longer desired. Well, there you are. We are already collaborating on our first project."
I sensed no resistance, yet I sensed no common-everydayness either in her manner. This did not feel like the norm for her. I suppose that the lure of a famous writer to a fledgling novelist might explain the entire response. Perhaps my own wistfulness for connection removed some of the sense from my perception, but I felt an attraction from her that transcended the ruse. I think she liked me.
"There are two choices. The Hollywood front: That would be the suite with the phony people worshiping my every word and the 'pretend me' that is necessary for me to be a successful author. That is awful to admit, I realize. It is necessary to afford me the second choice: the real me, in a small room devoted to writing. There is no one in there to tell me that I'm wonderful unless that is, you chose to join me there."
She had no choice. I surprised myself. That was rather clever to come up with that on the spot. My mind began to inventory my room here at the hotel. What evidence of Harold Miner laid on the tables and bed, awaiting discovery? Hmm. There wasn't a thing except for my current writing project. Of course, Harold Miner was my pen name in case someone happened to get a hold of some hard copy, a burglary or whatnot. She didn't seem like the type to go snooping through my wallet or luggage. I felt safe that this would not turn into "Dinner with Harry, the unpublished hack".
"I would so wish to have a quiet evening with you, John. I'm sure you tire of all the endless attention." Noni smiled; if it wasn't genuine, it still had the same effect. Imagine a starving hummingbird and cup of bright-red sugar-nectar. I'm trying to keep the drooling lion, considering bloody-red-meat image at bay.
She waved her arm as though at the end of a curtsey and waited for me to lead the way.
We arrived at my room. My hand shook visibly as my key entered the lock and the door fell open. She looked forward, her lips parted, pretending not to notice. The struggle to maintain class and decorum made the desire to abandon it more intense.
I took a deep breath. She exhaled and shook her hands with little subtlety. She smiled at me without any coyness. I smiled and the ability to walk and vocalize returned to me.
"There's nothing fancy here. Typical hotel faire. What can I offer you? There's room service."
She relaxed slightly. "Anything is fine. Whatever you're having. This is nice. Your latest?" She looked at my old underwood typewriter and the pages stacked beside it.
"Yes. I've never trusted computers, too many disasters. There's something about the sound of the keys slapping against the paper that says "writing" to me. It's funny to call that typewriter "ancient". It's state of the art, self-correcting, with memory and USB download…I can dump it into my laptop and have a hard copy just in case, the best of both worlds. Ha! Fascinating, right?"
She sat on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed. Her high-heeled shoe balanced on her toes. I watched as the shoe fell to the ground in slow motion. I focused on her thighs as she moved them slightly apart. She didn't make it obvious, but she made it intentional.
I went to get our wine and glasses and put them on the edge of the bed. I approached her in anticipation. She stretched out on her stomach smiling at me with her eyes locked on mine. Her panties were dangling from the end of her foot. The wine had no chance of filling a glass anytime soon. Every detail, scent, taste, sound, word and sensation would pass before my mind whenever I wished. I often wished.
The morning found her reading my story. She seemed genuinely engrossed. She smiled when she saw me awake and set the pages down. "This is a departure from your usual work. I like it. Thank you for last night; it was a departure for me. I've never experienced anything like that before. You were amazing." She glanced at the papers briefly and smiled. "I never knew that Harold Minor was such an incredible lover."
"My publisher would be surprised at how much he writes like me. You, Noni, are not of this earth. If I had the skill, I would write about you."
"I suppose with the convention over, you are off to the next stop. I would very much like to see you again. I'll give you my information. You can call me anytime. I assure you that this is not my normal behavior. In this case, I don't care how it seems. If you call, I will meet you." She smiled.
"I will be certain to do just that Noni. Is that your only copy? I'd like to read it." I nodded towards her manuscript.
"I have others. That would be lovely of you. I'm afraid it isn't as good as your work. Romance and kissy-kissy girl stuff." She didn't blush, but looked a bit shy.
"If it is anything like last night, I shall wear it out reading it. I will call as soon as I can." I watched as she left the room and walked down the hall.
I felt some regret for my deception. But, there would have been no chance for Harold Miner to land an evening like that with this beautiful woman. No, It took an accomplished man of the world. It took John Grisham.
It was at least six months before I saw her again. I walked one of the main streets of my hometown window-shopping. I looked in a window and there she was. She was on the cover of a book titled:
Hello, I'm John Grisham
and subtitled:
A welcome night of deceit
It was written by Nonette Grisham.
Write About This contest entry
Some women walk seeking attention. It is a practiced dance that transmits a message. Then there is the rare woman that demands attention without seeking it. They walk and the earth dances to the rhythm of their steps. Such a woman approached me that evening. Not that she approached me specifically. There was an individual along her chosen pathway who happened to be me. My decision to be an interesting obstacle was immediate.
She had a manuscript in her hand and the hotel was crawling with writers. We were there to network, take some classes and take in a lecture by John Grisham, the bestselling author.
I stepped forward and spoke to her, "are you here for the Grisham lecture?"
She stopped smoothly. She spoke clearly and didn't seem surprised by my sudden interruption of her walk. "Oh, no. I couldn't afford all of this. I just decided to come to the bar and see if I could strike up a couple friendships with some fellow authors. Are you a writer?"
"Yes, I am." I extended my hand. "Hello, I'm John Grisham."
She didn't blush or show signs of being surprised.
She responded in a sexy, not quite whispered, voice, "goodness me, this is awkward isn't it? Well, I certainly know your work. But, I confess, I have never seen a picture of you. I'm I bit at a loss for words. I suppose that doesn't speak well of me as a fledgling writer."
Excellent. She had the charm turned up all the way and she was no amateur. I had left myself the option of laughing off my introduction as a silly joke. But now, seeing as though she appeared to be buying it, I pursued it. My God, what a silly feeling. I felt quite insane attempting this ruse. But, she couldn't be more attractive. I imagine driving a buggy naked through Amish country would produce a similar sensation.
"Can I offer you a drink? I can give you the condensed two hundred dollar lecture at no charge."
"Sharing a drink would be fine. The lecture would be a nice bonus though!" She smiled and laughed, as though laughter was a newly discovered form of music.
I was a writer, but John Grisham might be considered a bit more accomplished. He had considerably more sales than my meager output of zero. No doubt, zero was also below his number of published manuscripts as well. Christ, I sure as hell hoped he didn't show up here for a nightcap.
"I try to keep as low a profile as possible. Writing authentically involves meeting people that are involved with my subject matter. To get a real point of view, it has to be as an equal. Coming in as a famous writer to do an interview doesn't get a real response. You see what I mean, right?" Hell, that sounded pretty damn good, I thought to myself.
"It makes perfect sense, John. I'm sure if they know it's you, they're going to embellish. It would be filled with hyperbole." She furrowed her brow.
She had an intelligent look on her face. Funny how that can't be faked. Even someone that actually is intelligent can't feign intelligence.
You're lucky you have incredible legs, my dear. "Indeed, that's the perfect word, feign. A brick layer suddenly becomes a builder of pyramids." I'm impressed with the rest of you too, darlin'. "So, what's your book about?" May as well see if I can get you up to my room.
"Oh, I don't want you to feel obligated to look at this." she held it up as though it were a baby with brittle bone disease. "I wouldn't want to put you out. I'm sure you get manuscripts thrown at you every day."
Actually, at my level of literary acumen, the hinges to my study remain rusty and yearning for a creaking. Hey! I need to write that down. I'm just hoping that this document is in some form of discernable English and not a holistic sleep remedy.
"Never let it be said that knowing the author isn't a big plus in getting some extra attention. I believe in fate." Her hand remained in mine.
She gave my hand a belated, but not too vigorous shake, as though after consideration she had thought it through.
She spoke as if confessing a sin, "I'm Nonette, by the way. Nonette Tatone. Most call me Noni."
"Noni, I like that. It brings to mind an exotic woman a shipwrecked man finds on a deserted island. Noni, the exotic mesmerizing island woman. It is said that one look at her and civilization is no longer desired. Well, there you are. We are already collaborating on our first project."
I sensed no resistance, yet I sensed no common-everydayness either in her manner. This did not feel like the norm for her. I suppose that the lure of a famous writer to a fledgling novelist might explain the entire response. Perhaps my own wistfulness for connection removed some of the sense from my perception, but I felt an attraction from her that transcended the ruse. I think she liked me.
"There are two choices. The Hollywood front: That would be the suite with the phony people worshiping my every word and the 'pretend me' that is necessary for me to be a successful author. That is awful to admit, I realize. It is necessary to afford me the second choice: the real me, in a small room devoted to writing. There is no one in there to tell me that I'm wonderful unless that is, you chose to join me there."
She had no choice. I surprised myself. That was rather clever to come up with that on the spot. My mind began to inventory my room here at the hotel. What evidence of Harold Miner laid on the tables and bed, awaiting discovery? Hmm. There wasn't a thing except for my current writing project. Of course, Harold Miner was my pen name in case someone happened to get a hold of some hard copy, a burglary or whatnot. She didn't seem like the type to go snooping through my wallet or luggage. I felt safe that this would not turn into "Dinner with Harry, the unpublished hack".
"I would so wish to have a quiet evening with you, John. I'm sure you tire of all the endless attention." Noni smiled; if it wasn't genuine, it still had the same effect. Imagine a starving hummingbird and cup of bright-red sugar-nectar. I'm trying to keep the drooling lion, considering bloody-red-meat image at bay.
She waved her arm as though at the end of a curtsey and waited for me to lead the way.
We arrived at my room. My hand shook visibly as my key entered the lock and the door fell open. She looked forward, her lips parted, pretending not to notice. The struggle to maintain class and decorum made the desire to abandon it more intense.
I took a deep breath. She exhaled and shook her hands with little subtlety. She smiled at me without any coyness. I smiled and the ability to walk and vocalize returned to me.
"There's nothing fancy here. Typical hotel faire. What can I offer you? There's room service."
She relaxed slightly. "Anything is fine. Whatever you're having. This is nice. Your latest?" She looked at my old underwood typewriter and the pages stacked beside it.
"Yes. I've never trusted computers, too many disasters. There's something about the sound of the keys slapping against the paper that says "writing" to me. It's funny to call that typewriter "ancient". It's state of the art, self-correcting, with memory and USB download…I can dump it into my laptop and have a hard copy just in case, the best of both worlds. Ha! Fascinating, right?"
She sat on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed. Her high-heeled shoe balanced on her toes. I watched as the shoe fell to the ground in slow motion. I focused on her thighs as she moved them slightly apart. She didn't make it obvious, but she made it intentional.
I went to get our wine and glasses and put them on the edge of the bed. I approached her in anticipation. She stretched out on her stomach smiling at me with her eyes locked on mine. Her panties were dangling from the end of her foot. The wine had no chance of filling a glass anytime soon. Every detail, scent, taste, sound, word and sensation would pass before my mind whenever I wished. I often wished.
The morning found her reading my story. She seemed genuinely engrossed. She smiled when she saw me awake and set the pages down. "This is a departure from your usual work. I like it. Thank you for last night; it was a departure for me. I've never experienced anything like that before. You were amazing." She glanced at the papers briefly and smiled. "I never knew that Harold Minor was such an incredible lover."
"My publisher would be surprised at how much he writes like me. You, Noni, are not of this earth. If I had the skill, I would write about you."
"I suppose with the convention over, you are off to the next stop. I would very much like to see you again. I'll give you my information. You can call me anytime. I assure you that this is not my normal behavior. In this case, I don't care how it seems. If you call, I will meet you." She smiled.
"I will be certain to do just that Noni. Is that your only copy? I'd like to read it." I nodded towards her manuscript.
"I have others. That would be lovely of you. I'm afraid it isn't as good as your work. Romance and kissy-kissy girl stuff." She didn't blush, but looked a bit shy.
"If it is anything like last night, I shall wear it out reading it. I will call as soon as I can." I watched as she left the room and walked down the hall.
I felt some regret for my deception. But, there would have been no chance for Harold Miner to land an evening like that with this beautiful woman. No, It took an accomplished man of the world. It took John Grisham.
It was at least six months before I saw her again. I walked one of the main streets of my hometown window-shopping. I looked in a window and there she was. She was on the cover of a book titled:
Hello, I'm John Grisham
and subtitled:
A welcome night of deceit
It was written by Nonette Grisham.
and subtitled:
A welcome night of deceit
It was written by Nonette Grisham.
 Recognized |
I put a warning on this because of the implications. Nothing is actually written about. Whatever happens can only be assumed.
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