Yellow Mama E zine

Dinner Plate Writer

 

by Martin Zeigler

 

          Joe's favorite waitress set the plate down in front of him and flashed him a smile. "Spaghetti and meat sauce," she said. "Just the thing for a starving writer."

          "Not starving yet, Belinda," he said. "Unless I lose my day job."

          "Any luck?"

          "With my day job?"

          "No, silly. Your writing. Last time we talked, you'd just submitted a story, didn't you?"

            "Yup. To CCQ. Thought I'd give them yet another try."

           "Crooks and Crimes Quarterly."

             Joe nodded. "That's right. Have I mentioned them before? I must have."

            "You might have. I don't recall."

             "Best mystery magazine in existence. You can't call yourself a mystery writer until you see print in CCQ. The story I just sent in? Impeccable. My best yet. My unique style shines in every sentence. Unfortunately, three days after emailing it off, I got the usual thanks but no thanks. Three days! My best story yet got the quickest thumbs down yet."

           "I'm so sorry."

           Joe shrugged. "Ah, but this time I just as quickly sent the editor something right back. A baggie of anthrax."

            "Joe, you didn't!"

            "Relax. It was just baking soda."

           "That's still horrible!"

             "Belinda, do I look like a guy who would do something like that?"

           "No, of course not."

            "Still smarts, though. The rejection."

            "I can imagine. But maybe if you—oh, look. Customers." She patted the back of his hand. "Be back in a blink."

           As Joe slurped his spaghetti, he basked in the sympathy he always got from Belinda, she with the snug jeans and the heart‑shaped behind, who likely trudged home every night to her rundown flat and her TV and her leftovers from the diner. And then afterward to her unmade bed, alone.

            He could tell all this because, having written, he knew a thing or two about character. He could tell she found something endearing about a customer-slash-writer pouring sweat into his every written word. And he knew that if he kept up the failed writer act, which was in fact no act at all, she would one day take pity on him and invite him over, skipping TV and leftovers in favor of rumpled sheets.

          "Maybe you try too hard," Belinda said when she returned. "Don't aim for uniqueness. Go for simplicity."

         This was new, Joe thought. He'd been sharing his struggles with her for a good half a year now, and this was the first time she ever offered advice. Belinda was a nice girl, and her behind was heart-shaped, but what the hell did she know about crafting a story?

        She went on. "Try something different by being different, but in a very tiny way."

           "Maybe you're right," he said, having no idea what she was talking about.

            "Think of an average story in CCQ as a plate of spaghetti. Now stir the sauce a little or slice that chunk of tomato or shift the garlic bread from one side of the plate to the other, and suddenly you have your own plate of spaghetti. That is, your own story. Now submit it. That's what I did. And I got accepted."

          "Wait a minute. You wrote a story?"

          "Yes. Can you believe it?"

         "For CCQ?"

         "Yes, Crooks and Crimes Quarterly."

            "I know what it stands for," Joe reminded her. "And they accepted it?"

            "Them," she said. "They took all three."

            "Three? You wrote three stories? And they—and all of them were accepted?"

           "Yes, the garlic bread in three different places, so to speak. The editor said I knew exactly what they were looking for."

            All Joe could think of was two words. "You? Published?"

            "Yes, Joe. But why are you so upset? I thought you'd be happy for me."

            Joe stood up, took hold of the porcelain plate with both hands, and slammed it down hard over Belinda's head, shattering the plate and maybe her skull.

           As Belinda collapsed to the floor, she muttered, "All three . . . in the winter issue. Hope . . . you like . . ."

             Joe had no clue what she meant about the stories being like spaghetti. He'd never picked up a copy of CCQ in his life. But he peeled a slice of garlic bread off her forehead anyway and flung it off toward the kitchen.  

 

 

          Martin Zeigler writes genre fiction, especially mystery, science fiction, and horror. His most recent work can be found in various issues of Crimeucopia. Marty has also self-published two collections of short stories.

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       Kelly Sauvage Moyer is an award-winning poet, photographer and fiber artist, who pursues her muse through New Orleans’s French Quarter. The author of four books, including Hushpuppy and Mother Pomegranate and Other Fairytales for Grown-Ups (Nun Prophet Press), Kelly is currently working on a witchy novella and directing a slew of short films. She is the founding editor of Circle of Salt. https://circleofsaltmag.blogspot.com/