Author: ST King
I don’t know when the reader gets there. But I know I’m glad he gets there. Daniel makes me uncomfortable: like a blind date with a constant stream of whiteheads; the ooze lands on her nose and follows my eyes around. It reminds me of Jack Nicholson. So I named it Johnny.
Then I stood up.
“You’re late. We’ve been waiting for a long time. I couldn’t start the interview without you. Okay, I lied. I did lie. But you didn’t miss anything. I was just bickering with Daniel. He’s been trying to make me believe the Rhine Maidens’ lies since he got here. Did you take your medicine today, Daniel?”
“Don’t answer that, Daniel.
“Anyway, tenant – oh, reader, I’m Daniel – Daniel, reader. He’s the anti-hero, here to tell us about his uneventful life. Would you like some coffee, reader? Come on, so we can get on with it! We’re just getting to the juicy part. Daniel, tell him what you told me this morning about the photographer in the drugstore. Yes, that’s him.”
respite.
I whisper to the reader, “Two out of five. Tell you now, before you get uncomfortable. It’s more fun to torture willing people, right?”
I kept wanting to stop talking. Talking to Daniel was like talking to a plate of salad; he just spouted nonsense. Half of what he said made no sense or reason. And it wasn’t charming or funny. But damn, he was trying too hard. I didn’t want to hear his story anymore. But the sadist in me laughed. It was the reader’s turn:
You can tell it by his scent, which smells like farm donkey and overripe Vlasic The pickles were doused in Limburger cheese sauce and topped with Aqua Velva, and he did it entirely for the girls’ benefit.
Excerpted from Do you believe in the Rhinemaiden? Craig Caudill.
He described it the same way he had last time: there were Vlassic pickles and everything; and, what the hell was cottage ass?
oops.
Somewhere in my heart, somewhere in my gut, I frowned. “Oh, yes, Daniel, it’s fascinating. Now go on. Tell him about that woman—the whale you saw on TV.”
“Belinda?”
“Yes, that’s her. The fat one.”
In season two, she lives on a tropical island where the dudes have to solve puzzles, answer trivia, perform strength, freestyle dancing, reading comprehension, GED, and other crazy skills like lip syncing darts, Corn Hole Finally, there’s lawn darts.
Excerpted from Do you believe in the Rhinemaiden? By Craig Caudill.
GED certificate? I thought. The reader looked at me and shrugged. His smile faded like dye on cheap fabric. I had lost him. Maybe it was worse than I first thought. I knew Daniel and his partner, Craig Caudill, the author of the story, had prepared for this interview.
But when he describes things—oh my god, it’s so awkward.
“Well,” I sighed. “Time for the main course, eh?” I smiled. This was about as dry and awkward as this interview had ever been. “We’re here to hear your story, the story of the Rhinemaidens. So, let’s go.”
He nodded and continued to talk: telling us about his boring office job, his mad skills, his dreams of flying and pecking fish, of drowning and women singing. I found it really ironic when he talked about how boring his colleagues were, as if what he said was more fascinating or more appealing. Big man Napoleon had mad skills – this guy didn’t.
“Then I fell into the river…”
I wiped the saliva from the corner of my mouth and jumped up. “River! You fell into the river!”
“That’s what he said.”
“Shut up. I heard you.”
Daniel continued: “Because everything is so beautiful.”
Then a wave of guilt hit me. Daniel’s eyes were filled with tears. I wondered if I was being insensitive. No.
It is not my fault.
“Daniel, I’m sorry. This discussion of a teenage girl leading people to their deaths: people jumping off buildings, people drowning and being torn apart. It’s fascinating stuff, Daniel…”
But your idea sounds so awkward.
At least I’m honest most of the time.
I endured that interview for another hour. After the interview, the reader stayed with me as we grudgingly perused the full transcript of Daniels’ story. After all, we had to rate it—typical protocol here, you know? Unfortunately, when I’m tired, my thoughts tend to leak out. That means my thoughts are harder to control.
“Readers, what’s wrong with this story?”
He must have leaked it, too. I feel better about my behavior now. He was so heartless.
“Okay, where do I start…
“It’s clear he wasn’t prepared. You can tell from his writing, you see. Look at all those spelling mistakes, and this awkward flow and sentence structure. It ruins the experience. On paper it should be exciting, but it’s dull to read, just as it was in the interview. He seems to lack a unique and compelling voice.
“Besides,” he continued. “None of the other characters are interesting: these paranormal investigators, even the Rhinemaiden herself. And this whole show makes no sense, she’s just wooing the audience with her nonsense singing; this isn’t Greece.”
“This is Sparta!”
The reader glared at me. “Aren’t you?”
“Sorry, I’m tired, okay.”
Taking a sip of his cider, he added: “At least the concept is interesting – I admit it.”
We both laughed at the end. Daniel did say something funny from time to time: though they were rare. I put the report away with a frown on my face: when I saw the woman in blue on the cover again – as if for the first time: a thing of seduction, a stately and silent beauty. I have to say it broke my spirit. I turned off the light in the small studio, half expecting Daniel to cry out.
“Daniel, this is such a missed opportunity…”
Order yours here.
score: 2/5
About the author: An aspiring novelist with a penchant for darkness and an insatiable thirst for fantasy, ST King currently works as a mental health counsellor, helping people purge their closets of darkness – although he admits he thinks it’s more fun to put it back in.
