Eliza Grande Part 1 (of 4)
In four installments, I'm going to share a short story I wrote a couple years ago for a friend of mine. I tried to get it published, but it was rejected by every writing contest and fiction magazine I submitted it to. Even still, I like it very much, and I hope you'll like it too. Enjoy....
Eliza Grand Part 1:
Eliza Grand Part 1:
“…and now our peoples shall know
peace,” I read from my novel in a slightly higher register; trying to sound
something like the character—a female Gnome named Glendora—might sound. “The War of the Dragon Gods is over. We can all return home to our families and
rebuild our shattered homes.”
I continued reading, now with the deep baritone of Percy the Wizard. “Indeed we can Glendora, but for how long will peace last in our magical, yet diverse world that has seen war and crisis far too often in my long lifetimes?”
Now I read in my narrator’s voice, which was just my own voice with a public speaker’s volume and articulation. “And as our heroes stood in stoic silence amidst the ruins of the newly finished battle, a mile beneath their feet in a deep dark cavern, one last dragon egg lay nestled and abandoned in a lowly crevice, holding the potential answer to the old wizard’s weary question.” I closed the three hundred and seventy five page book and looked up at my enraptured audience; a small group of socially unique individuals—mostly single young men, many wearing Star Wars, Doctor Who or Lord of the Rings tee shirts—and smiled warmly at the whole silly lot of them. “Well that was chapter 9 of my book Dragon Wars which is Volume 12 in Goblins of the Wind’s bestselling Mortal Realms Adventures Series.” Lance—my editor—was insistent I always mention my books are part of my publisher’s MRA Series, based on the popular role playing game of the same title. “Thank you all for coming. So, um, are there any questions?”
I checked my wrist watch. It was already half past noon. Helen would be meeting me across town at that ridiculously priced French restaurant she loved so much at 1 PM. It would take me ten minutes to get there if I could get a taxi quickly enough. Scott—my agent—had told me the bookstore was insistent I answer everyone’s questions after reading a chapter from my latest sword-and-sorcery hack job. Apparently I left too early last time and Barnes and Noble had received a lot of complaints from disappointed patrons. There were maybe fifty people in the room. Perhaps I could get through the Q and A in 15 minutes if no one asked too many questions; enough time to get to Le Over-Priced Café. When I looked back up and saw that every hand in the room had shot up, I knew I was headed for trouble.
I continued reading, now with the deep baritone of Percy the Wizard. “Indeed we can Glendora, but for how long will peace last in our magical, yet diverse world that has seen war and crisis far too often in my long lifetimes?”
Now I read in my narrator’s voice, which was just my own voice with a public speaker’s volume and articulation. “And as our heroes stood in stoic silence amidst the ruins of the newly finished battle, a mile beneath their feet in a deep dark cavern, one last dragon egg lay nestled and abandoned in a lowly crevice, holding the potential answer to the old wizard’s weary question.” I closed the three hundred and seventy five page book and looked up at my enraptured audience; a small group of socially unique individuals—mostly single young men, many wearing Star Wars, Doctor Who or Lord of the Rings tee shirts—and smiled warmly at the whole silly lot of them. “Well that was chapter 9 of my book Dragon Wars which is Volume 12 in Goblins of the Wind’s bestselling Mortal Realms Adventures Series.” Lance—my editor—was insistent I always mention my books are part of my publisher’s MRA Series, based on the popular role playing game of the same title. “Thank you all for coming. So, um, are there any questions?”
I checked my wrist watch. It was already half past noon. Helen would be meeting me across town at that ridiculously priced French restaurant she loved so much at 1 PM. It would take me ten minutes to get there if I could get a taxi quickly enough. Scott—my agent—had told me the bookstore was insistent I answer everyone’s questions after reading a chapter from my latest sword-and-sorcery hack job. Apparently I left too early last time and Barnes and Noble had received a lot of complaints from disappointed patrons. There were maybe fifty people in the room. Perhaps I could get through the Q and A in 15 minutes if no one asked too many questions; enough time to get to Le Over-Priced Café. When I looked back up and saw that every hand in the room had shot up, I knew I was headed for trouble.
*
“…and according to your website and
Wikipedia page…,” the tall gangly man with his unkempt beard, and long black
hair kept in a pony tail continued talking, but after more than an hour of long
winded and far too well researched questions, I was now only hearing fragments
of his sentences. “…as well, in the
Monster Manual: 5th Edition, which came out just last year…” Someone shoot me. I looked at my watch again. It was well past 1:30 and Helen would no
doubt be plotting my painful death. The
poor fellow kept talking, though I had long since lost track of what he was
asking me. “So how do you account for
this inaccuracy in Dragon Wars when Goblins of the Wind promised at last year’s
Fantasy Con that you and all their other MRA writers would be more careful
about continuity?” I forgot to answer;
my mind imagining what terror would await me when I finally spoke to Helen
again, but of course, the pony tail man could care less that my life was in
jeopardy. “Mister Gurney?” he called me
by my made up pseudonym of Gurney. My
pen name was A. H. Gurney—a tribute to my favorite modern playwright, A. R.
Gurney. I was saving my real
name—Anderson Hart—for when I wrote something good; whenever that would
be. “Are you listening to me? I spend a lot of my hard earned money on your
books—money that pays for your nice jacket and that watch you keep looking
at—and I demand a little respect when I ask you a question! Now answer me!”
Half the room applauded the man’s outrage at my inattentiveness, and the other half seemed embarrassed for me as they sat in awkward silence, waiting for me to respond. “Well, first off, let me apologize…,” I began to say when I was suddenly interrupted by the sound of the wooden double doors popping violently open and striking the walls with the ferocity of a thunder clap.
An attractive but obviously infuriated young woman wearing a beautifully form fitting and (as I recall from my credit card bill) expensive white dress barged into the bookstore’s lecture hall and glared at me with the fiery eyes of a woman scorned. I knew her and that angry look all too well. I wasn’t surprised to see her.
“Anderson Peter Hart!” Helen screamed my full name at me from the doorway. “How dare you stand me up again, and on our sixth month anniversary no less!” It was also apparently Everyone-Chew-out-Anderson-Day, too. “I mean, how can you be so self absorbed? Do I mean nothing to you?”
I tried to respond but wasn’t quick enough. “No Anderson,” she folded her arms and continued to glare. “I don’t want to hear it. I’ve been taking the backseat to your career far too long! Do you have any idea how hard it is to date a writer? I mean, you never listen to me. You just sit there daydreaming all the time and when you’re writing, you turn off your phone and don’t even answer the door. How can anyone get close to you? And the worst part is that your bestselling books are crap. Only losers read your drivel!” Helen suddenly became aware of all the people staring at her. “Oh, mind your own business and keep your zit-face mouths shut! You know you’re all losers!” Then she returned her wrath to me. “I knew I shouldn’t have left Greg Smothers for you. He works on Wall Street. You just write crap! Well it’s over between us, Anderson. And don’t try to make up with me. It’s too late for that. Enjoy looking at my well toned ass as I walk out the door, because it’s the last time you’re ever seeing it, or the rest of me for that matter!”
And she left.
The room was silent for a moment. I watched Helen until she was out of sight. No. Stop. Don’t. I heard Gene Wilder’s flat and insincere voice as Willy Wonka in my mind as I watched her go. When she was finally gone, I looked back over the room. Ponytail-guy had sat back down and everyone was looking at me in shock. I felt a huge weight lift from off my shoulders. Helen hadn’t killed me. She had just publically dumped me and insulted a room full of people who actually read my work. I smiled and cleared my throat.
“Are there any more questions?” I asked.
Every hand in the room shot up.
“Are there any questions not about what just happened?”
Half the hands went back down.
“…or about what the woman who was just here looks like naked?”
All the hands went down except for one. It belonged to a girl about twelve who looked a bit out of place sitting between two overweight and unshaven men in their late thirties.
“Yes, you in the black tee-shirt,” I called on her. “What’s your question?” “Do you like, know Stephanie Meyers?” she asked.
“Not personally, no.”
“Oh…,” she looked disappointed. “Her books are really good. You should read them. I like your stuff too, but I think you should write more like her, maybe.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I sighed. “Well, I think we can wrap things up here. See you all next year.”
Half the room applauded the man’s outrage at my inattentiveness, and the other half seemed embarrassed for me as they sat in awkward silence, waiting for me to respond. “Well, first off, let me apologize…,” I began to say when I was suddenly interrupted by the sound of the wooden double doors popping violently open and striking the walls with the ferocity of a thunder clap.
An attractive but obviously infuriated young woman wearing a beautifully form fitting and (as I recall from my credit card bill) expensive white dress barged into the bookstore’s lecture hall and glared at me with the fiery eyes of a woman scorned. I knew her and that angry look all too well. I wasn’t surprised to see her.
“Anderson Peter Hart!” Helen screamed my full name at me from the doorway. “How dare you stand me up again, and on our sixth month anniversary no less!” It was also apparently Everyone-Chew-out-Anderson-Day, too. “I mean, how can you be so self absorbed? Do I mean nothing to you?”
I tried to respond but wasn’t quick enough. “No Anderson,” she folded her arms and continued to glare. “I don’t want to hear it. I’ve been taking the backseat to your career far too long! Do you have any idea how hard it is to date a writer? I mean, you never listen to me. You just sit there daydreaming all the time and when you’re writing, you turn off your phone and don’t even answer the door. How can anyone get close to you? And the worst part is that your bestselling books are crap. Only losers read your drivel!” Helen suddenly became aware of all the people staring at her. “Oh, mind your own business and keep your zit-face mouths shut! You know you’re all losers!” Then she returned her wrath to me. “I knew I shouldn’t have left Greg Smothers for you. He works on Wall Street. You just write crap! Well it’s over between us, Anderson. And don’t try to make up with me. It’s too late for that. Enjoy looking at my well toned ass as I walk out the door, because it’s the last time you’re ever seeing it, or the rest of me for that matter!”
And she left.
The room was silent for a moment. I watched Helen until she was out of sight. No. Stop. Don’t. I heard Gene Wilder’s flat and insincere voice as Willy Wonka in my mind as I watched her go. When she was finally gone, I looked back over the room. Ponytail-guy had sat back down and everyone was looking at me in shock. I felt a huge weight lift from off my shoulders. Helen hadn’t killed me. She had just publically dumped me and insulted a room full of people who actually read my work. I smiled and cleared my throat.
“Are there any more questions?” I asked.
Every hand in the room shot up.
“Are there any questions not about what just happened?”
Half the hands went back down.
“…or about what the woman who was just here looks like naked?”
All the hands went down except for one. It belonged to a girl about twelve who looked a bit out of place sitting between two overweight and unshaven men in their late thirties.
“Yes, you in the black tee-shirt,” I called on her. “What’s your question?” “Do you like, know Stephanie Meyers?” she asked.
“Not personally, no.”
“Oh…,” she looked disappointed. “Her books are really good. You should read them. I like your stuff too, but I think you should write more like her, maybe.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I sighed. “Well, I think we can wrap things up here. See you all next year.”
*
Later,
while eating a chicken sandwich at a nearby mall food-court, and wondering how
and when I was going to be able to get my stuff out of Helen’s apartment, a tall
black man, wearing sun glasses and the smart hat, gloves, and suit of a first
class chauffeur, approached me carrying a brown attaché case, which he placed
down on the table next to my tray of food.
“Um... hello?” I didn’t know what else to say.
“You are A. H. Gurney, are you not?” he asked me; his face unreadable, especially with his eyes hidden behind those sunglasses.
“Yes, I am,” I was unsure if I should be worried or not. He didn’t seem dangerous, just out of place, and not looking typical of my usual fan base. “Did you miss the reading at B & N’s earlier? Is there a book in that attaché case you want me to sign? If so, I hope you have a pen on you. I left mine back at the bookstore.”
“There is a book in the case—more a manuscript than a book really—but I don’t need you to sign it,” he replied. “I’m supposed to let you take it home and read it.”
“Oh, hey, listen,” I tried to hand him back the case. “I’m sorry but I’m just a writer, and I don’t have time to read unpublished works and give feedback. I can give you the mailing address for my agent, if you’re looking to break into the business. I can also recommend a nice writer’s group, if you’re looking for constructive feedback on your work.”
The chauffer shook his head and refused to take back the attaché case. “No sir, it isn’t my manuscript. It’s yours. My employer is insistent that you read over that manuscript and give her a call. In fact, she feels it’s quite urgent you do so within the next 48 hours.”
“And who is your employer?” I asked; wondering if someone was playing a prank on me.
“Here’s her card, sir,” he placed a small business card down on the table. “Read the book and call her. It’s very important to her. She would’ve come here herself, but she isn’t feeling up to traveling today.”
“Wait, who are you?” I called out to the man after he started walking away from the table. “What’s all this about?”
I heard no response from the chauffer as he had already walked swiftly away; disappearing into the ever moving throngs of mall shoppers and out of sight. I sighed. Today was one to remember. That was certain. I picked up the business card and read aloud what it said above the phone number with the northern California area-code: Eliza Grande: Keeper of all things Past and Future
“Huh…”
“Um... hello?” I didn’t know what else to say.
“You are A. H. Gurney, are you not?” he asked me; his face unreadable, especially with his eyes hidden behind those sunglasses.
“Yes, I am,” I was unsure if I should be worried or not. He didn’t seem dangerous, just out of place, and not looking typical of my usual fan base. “Did you miss the reading at B & N’s earlier? Is there a book in that attaché case you want me to sign? If so, I hope you have a pen on you. I left mine back at the bookstore.”
“There is a book in the case—more a manuscript than a book really—but I don’t need you to sign it,” he replied. “I’m supposed to let you take it home and read it.”
“Oh, hey, listen,” I tried to hand him back the case. “I’m sorry but I’m just a writer, and I don’t have time to read unpublished works and give feedback. I can give you the mailing address for my agent, if you’re looking to break into the business. I can also recommend a nice writer’s group, if you’re looking for constructive feedback on your work.”
The chauffer shook his head and refused to take back the attaché case. “No sir, it isn’t my manuscript. It’s yours. My employer is insistent that you read over that manuscript and give her a call. In fact, she feels it’s quite urgent you do so within the next 48 hours.”
“And who is your employer?” I asked; wondering if someone was playing a prank on me.
“Here’s her card, sir,” he placed a small business card down on the table. “Read the book and call her. It’s very important to her. She would’ve come here herself, but she isn’t feeling up to traveling today.”
“Wait, who are you?” I called out to the man after he started walking away from the table. “What’s all this about?”
I heard no response from the chauffer as he had already walked swiftly away; disappearing into the ever moving throngs of mall shoppers and out of sight. I sighed. Today was one to remember. That was certain. I picked up the business card and read aloud what it said above the phone number with the northern California area-code: Eliza Grande: Keeper of all things Past and Future
“Huh…”
*
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