Résumé With Monsters by William Browning Spencer Page A
Authors: William Browning Spencer
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Horror, American Fiction, 20th Century, Life on other planets, Erotic Fiction, Men, Fiction / Horror, Horror - General
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make-up was gone from her face, and she looked defenseless. A dab of cold cream adorned the end of her nose.
“I got off work, early," Philip said. "Thought I'd drop by."
"Yeah," Amelia said.
The man and the dark-haired woman had gone away from the door. The woman suddenly laughed, a piercing, lascivious shriek, conjuring, somehow, an explicit and precise image of oral high jinks.
Amelia flinched slightly, shoulders rising as though someone had clutched the back of her neck. "That's Robert, Rita's boyfriend," she said. "You can see why I want to move out."
"Yes," Philip said.
"Are you okay?" Amelia asked.
"I'm fine," Philip said. "I guess I should have called. I'll talk to you later."
He left, driving home in a state of heightened misery.
He could not sleep and so worked furiously on his novel, as though he might actually flee to that fictional land where he ruled—admittedly over a disenfranchised crew that no one wanted and that one editor had called "implausible, unmotivated madmen."
He sat typing furiously, crouched over his computer as the rain came through the ceiling and an army of pots and pans uttered froglike exclamations of delight.
The novel could not shelter him. He kept seeing Amelia's face. The thought bloomed wickedly in his mind, inspired by the arrogant male loutishness of bikini-briefed Robert: What if she finds someone else?
13.
In the morning, Amelia called. "I'm sorry," she said. "You can see why I have to get my own place." He could.
After the call, he got out of bed and showered. The cast had been removed two days ago, and its absence felt unnatural. He still couldn't move his leg at the knee and had been instructed in various exercises to restore muscle tone. He scrubbed the pale flesh and the bright scar at the knee. He thought about the general flimsiness of human beings, and the specific, blown-glass fragility of Philip Kenan .
As he came out of the shower, the phone rang again.
"Philip Kenan ?"
"Yes," Philip said, instantly wary, always ready for bad news.
"My name is Richard Klausner , and I'm an editor at Wingate House here in New York."
Wingate House, Philip thought. Maybe the second biggest independent publisher out there.
"Sorry we took so long getting back to you, but nobody here knew what to make of your book. I loved it, but you know how it is, you have got to get a lot of heads nodding in unison these days before you can do anything. Everyone said, 'Yeah, sure, Richard, maybe you didn't notice, this book is two thousand pages long. And this guy Kenan is nobody, not Norman Mailer, not Stephen King, not Jackie Collins. We are talking an unknown author, with no track record, dropping a thirty dollar plus book on a sluggish market. Forget it.'" Klausner paused, chuckled.
"They had a point," he said. "But I was ready for them. Listen. See how this sounds. I said, 'You're right. We can't do that. I understand that. So forget a two-thousand-page book. Think five books.'" Klausner stopped speaking abruptly. Philip leaned into the receiver's silence, expecting more. The silence expanded.
"Well, what do you think?" Klausner finally asked.
"I don't follow you," Philip said.
"Five books," Klausner repeated. "We take The Despicable Quest , and we chop it into five neat, marketable, repeat-business, cycling sales fantasy novels. That's what I told them. And guess what, Philip?"
"Ah—" Philip said.
"Yep, they loved it. You are in. Congratulations."
Philip hardly heard the rest of the conversation. He had sold his novel. After years of labor, after it had developed a bloated life of its own and had come to seem more of a parasite than a potential breadwinner, it had sold.
Philip called Amelia back but got no answer. He realized, then, that she was at work, had probably called from there during a break. He didn't have that number. He decided he would call her
“I got off work, early," Philip said. "Thought I'd drop by."
"Yeah," Amelia said.
The man and the dark-haired woman had gone away from the door. The woman suddenly laughed, a piercing, lascivious shriek, conjuring, somehow, an explicit and precise image of oral high jinks.
Amelia flinched slightly, shoulders rising as though someone had clutched the back of her neck. "That's Robert, Rita's boyfriend," she said. "You can see why I want to move out."
"Yes," Philip said.
"Are you okay?" Amelia asked.
"I'm fine," Philip said. "I guess I should have called. I'll talk to you later."
He left, driving home in a state of heightened misery.
He could not sleep and so worked furiously on his novel, as though he might actually flee to that fictional land where he ruled—admittedly over a disenfranchised crew that no one wanted and that one editor had called "implausible, unmotivated madmen."
He sat typing furiously, crouched over his computer as the rain came through the ceiling and an army of pots and pans uttered froglike exclamations of delight.
The novel could not shelter him. He kept seeing Amelia's face. The thought bloomed wickedly in his mind, inspired by the arrogant male loutishness of bikini-briefed Robert: What if she finds someone else?
13.
In the morning, Amelia called. "I'm sorry," she said. "You can see why I have to get my own place." He could.
After the call, he got out of bed and showered. The cast had been removed two days ago, and its absence felt unnatural. He still couldn't move his leg at the knee and had been instructed in various exercises to restore muscle tone. He scrubbed the pale flesh and the bright scar at the knee. He thought about the general flimsiness of human beings, and the specific, blown-glass fragility of Philip Kenan .
As he came out of the shower, the phone rang again.
"Philip Kenan ?"
"Yes," Philip said, instantly wary, always ready for bad news.
"My name is Richard Klausner , and I'm an editor at Wingate House here in New York."
Wingate House, Philip thought. Maybe the second biggest independent publisher out there.
"Sorry we took so long getting back to you, but nobody here knew what to make of your book. I loved it, but you know how it is, you have got to get a lot of heads nodding in unison these days before you can do anything. Everyone said, 'Yeah, sure, Richard, maybe you didn't notice, this book is two thousand pages long. And this guy Kenan is nobody, not Norman Mailer, not Stephen King, not Jackie Collins. We are talking an unknown author, with no track record, dropping a thirty dollar plus book on a sluggish market. Forget it.'" Klausner paused, chuckled.
"They had a point," he said. "But I was ready for them. Listen. See how this sounds. I said, 'You're right. We can't do that. I understand that. So forget a two-thousand-page book. Think five books.'" Klausner stopped speaking abruptly. Philip leaned into the receiver's silence, expecting more. The silence expanded.
"Well, what do you think?" Klausner finally asked.
"I don't follow you," Philip said.
"Five books," Klausner repeated. "We take The Despicable Quest , and we chop it into five neat, marketable, repeat-business, cycling sales fantasy novels. That's what I told them. And guess what, Philip?"
"Ah—" Philip said.
"Yep, they loved it. You are in. Congratulations."
Philip hardly heard the rest of the conversation. He had sold his novel. After years of labor, after it had developed a bloated life of its own and had come to seem more of a parasite than a potential breadwinner, it had sold.
Philip called Amelia back but got no answer. He realized, then, that she was at work, had probably called from there during a break. He didn't have that number. He decided he would call her
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