Flowers in a Dumpster

by Mark Allan Gunnells

“There’s an email here from mhunter@coolmail.com.”

  “Oh, that’s for me. Save it and I’ll read it when you’re done.”

  Vanessa frowned at the screen. She and her husband shared an email account, and she was familiar with the email addresses of all Richard’s friends and co-workers. This one was new to her. “Who’s it from?”

  “A new friend.”

  “A new friend? Where’d you meet him . . . or her?”

  Richard smiled at his wife, coming over to kiss her. “No need to get jealous. It’s a him. His name’s Mace Hunter, I met him online.”

  “Oh, I see?” Vanessa said with a raise of her eyebrows. “My husband is meeting men on the internet. That certainly makes me feel better. What’s next, I’m going to catch you watching Cabaret?”

  “Ha-ha, very funny, Ness. I met him on that book message board I post on. We seemed to have similar taste in fiction so we started chatting. Turns out he’s a writer, too.”

  “Oh, really? Published?”

  “About like me. Some limited success in smaller markets, but most of the big publications still thinks he sucks.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “Washington.”

  “State or D.C.?”

  Richard frowned and pushed his glasses up his nose with a forefinger. “You know, I’m not sure. We haven’t talked much about our personal lives, mostly books and writing.”

  “Have you read any of his work?”

  “Yeah, we’ve traded a few short stories.”

  “Is he any good?”

  “Honestly, he’s a hell of a lot more talented than I am.”

  “I’ll take that with a grain of salt.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You’re your own harshest critic, Rich. You’re much too hard on yourself.”

  “Well, Mace has given me some very positive feedback on the pieces I’ve sent him, which makes me feel good.”

  “I’ve always told you your stuff is great.”

  “Oh, I know, I’m not discounting your opinion or anything, but it’s nice to hear from someone else who’s serious about writing, who’s also pursuing it as a career.”

  “Sounds nice,” Vanessa said, turning back to the computer, checking through her emails. “Did I tell you I finally sold the McKenzie’s a house? We close next Thursday.”

  “That’s great, Ness. The one on Magnolia Street?”

  “No,” Vanessa said with a sigh. “They settled on a two-story Victorian on Scottsdale Avenue.”

  “You don’t sound too thrilled about it.”

  “That house is listed with Heathcliff Realty, which means I’ll have to split the commission with Margie Crews.”

  “Well, half a commission is better than none.”

  “Okay, all done here,” Vanessa said, pushing away from the desk. She left the email account open. “You can read your message from your boyfriend now.”

  “You’re a riot,” Richard said, swatting Vanessa on the butt as she passed him on her way out of the office. Richard sat down at the desk and clicked on the message from Mace.

  ***

  TO: thesmalls@gmail.com

  FROM: mhunter@coolmail.com

  SUBJECT: Feedback

  Richard, I read the story you sent me, ‘And This Too Shall Pass.’ I think this piece has a lot of potential. You create an ominous atmosphere right from the beginning, and an escalating sense of dread throughout the narrative. I do, however, have a couple of suggestions on how you could make this story stronger. The character of Aunt Ursula comes across as a tad schizophrenic. She is portrayed at alternate times as a senile old woman, a wise sage, a busybody, and comedic relief. A little more consistency of character is needed, I feel. Also, the implausibly happy ending seems tacked on to me. I almost feel like you were going for something darker then decided to pull your punches at the last minute. The ending as it now stands undercuts the power of the whole piece. My advice would be to not introduce the dues ex machina at the end and allow the couple to remain apart with their lives fucked up. I do think the story was very well written, with a tight, fast pace, and I definitely recommend you submit this one.

  For that matter, you should be doing much more submitting than you presently are. You’re a damned fine writer, and if you had a little more confidence in your own ability and would get your work out there, I think you’d be quite successful.

  And what about that novel idea you mentioned in your last email, the thing about the shape shifters . . . have you started it yet? It sounds intriguing, and I’d love to read whatever you’ve got written. Well, I’m going to get back to work. I should finish up this new story tonight and I’ll send it your way.

  Mace

  TO: mhunter@coolmail.com

  FROM: thesmalls@gmail.com

  SUBJECT: Unproductive

  Hey Mace, good to hear from you. Thanks for the feedback on ‘And This Too Shall Pass.’ You really picked up on some of the story’s weaknesses. The reason Aunt Ursula seems so all-over-the-place is because she is actually a composite of several characters I excised from the piece. As usual with my stuff, the story started to get a bit unwieldy and bloated, so I removed two characters and gave some of their traits and dialogue to Aunt Ursula, creating the multiple personality effect. As for the ending, the original version was much darker with Peter actually murdering Fiona instead of letting her live without him, but Ness hated that ending. So I went back and added the discovery of the letter Ursula had written before her death and the subsequent tearful reunion.

  Ness liked that ending a lot better, but truthfully it bothers me, too. Maybe I’ll send you the original version to see what you think of it. I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to start on the novel, or even any new short stories for that matter.

  It’s been a busy time at the paper. The other guy in my department quit, so for the moment I’m the only one writing obituaries for The Granger Gazette. At least I get to work mostly from home, but it doesn’t leave me with as much time to write as I’d like.

  Then again, I remember reading stories of how King would work long hours in an industrial laundry then write in the basement at night. Maybe I’m not dedicated enough. I mean, I’m 35 years old; by the time King was my age, he was already a best-selling author. What have I done? Sold a handful of stories to publications that don’t even pay professional rates. I better stop before I depress myself. If all these old people in town will stop dying—ha-ha—then maybe I’ll be able to start something new. And this weekend I’m going to take some time to polish up some of my stuff and get it out there, as you said. Thanks for the encouragement.

  ‘Til later.

  Rich

  P.S. Are you in Washington State or D.C?

  ***

  Early evening twilight filtered through the office windows when Ness got home. Richard barely heard the muffled sound of the door closing. His fingers tapped eagerly at the computer keys, eyes tracking the words he wrote. His face seemed bleached in the glow of the computer screen. Ness arrived in the office doorway, a briefcase in one hand. She had to call Richard’s name twice before he reluctantly drew back from the computer.

  “Hey,” Richard said, leaning back in his chair and smiling at his wife. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

  “You must’ve forgotten I was coming home,” Ness said, irritation edging into her voice. “No supper tonight?”

  “Oh, damn!” Richard said. He removed his glasses and began to clean them with his shirt. When he put them back on, he looked at the clock. Seven-fifteen. “God, babe, I lost track of time.”

  He got to his feet and quickly crossed to where Ness stood, impatiently tapping one foot. He took the briefcase from her hand and set it aside. “Tell you what, I’ll order in Chinese. You can eat then take a nice hot bath.” He stroked her jaw, pushing back her hair.

  She smiled. “And a foot rub?”

  Richard grinned. “Of course.”

  “I’ll take that bath now.” Ness sigh
ed. “Delivery will take at least forty minutes.”

  “Great,” Richard said. Cradling the back of his wife’s neck, he gave her a lingering kiss. She blinked in surprise.

  “My, my,” she said. “What’s gotten into you?”

  Richard kissed her again and said, “I feel inspired.”***

  “Food’s on the way,” Richard said.

  Vanessa had submerged herself in a tub full of white suds, her head laid back upon the end of the bathtub. Her eyes were closed, dark sooty lashes against her cheeks. She moved slightly, the water rippling, and sighed.

  “Wonderful,” she said.

  Richard sat on the edge of the tub and listened while Ness told him about her day. It had been hectic, with three clients who insisted on seeing everything in the city. Richard listened attentively, waiting for his wife to run out of steam. Ordinarily she didn’t ask about his day and he didn’t offer—Richard found that trying to talk writing with anyone who wasn’t a writer was akin to banging your head against a wall. Today, however, he was bursting with enthusiasm.

  “I’m sorry about supper,” he said. “I got so caught up in my writing that I lost track of time.”

  Ness made an inarticulate sound of acknowledgement—hmm mmm—and Richard continued.

  “You remember that story I wrote, ‘And This Too Shall Pass’? Well, Mace had some terrific feedback and I made a few changes today. I really feel like I’ve got a winner now. And I started two more stories today—two—and I usually have trouble keeping one on the go. I haven’t felt this inspired since I was a kid. Back then it seemed like writing was it, you know? I love that feeling.”

  Richard had hoped Ness would open her eyes and express her pleasure at his happiness. Instead she gently waved a hand in the water, making soft splashes, and said, “That’s nice.”

  Richard sighed.

  Ness opened her eyes and looked at him. “What?”

  “Nothing,” Richard said. He got to his feet, knees popping. Suddenly the computer in his office seemed to beckon. “I think I’ll do a bit more writing before the food gets here.”

  “Hold on,” Ness said, sitting up in the tub. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”

  Richard breathed another sigh. “It’s just that . . . ” He found himself stumbling again, as he always did when he tried to discuss his writing with Vanessa. She couldn’t understand the fear, frustration and passion. That was what made Mace so great.

  “Just that what?”

  “I feel like you don’t understand my writing and how I feel about it,” Richard said. “I know I’m not that good at making it easy to understand, but I wish you got it a bit more. You know . . . the passion I feel.”

  “I get it, Richard. Really, I do. I mean, I’m not a writer so I can’t really relate, but I know how much you love it. It’s great that you had a good day and got carried away with your stories. I only wish you hadn’t gotten carried through supper.”

  “That’s the thing,” Richard said. He crouched by the tub again and reached into the warm water, touching Ness’s shoulder, seeking connection. “Passion does that. It makes you forget about the world around you. I haven’t felt that for my writing in so long. I was so happy, and I wanted to share it with you.”

  “I’m glad,” Ness said.

  “Writing is all I’ve ever wanted to do,” Richard explained. Ness was listening now. “For as long as I can remember. Didn’t you ever have a real, honest-to-God passion?”

  “Well,” Ness said, “I love you. That’s passion.”

  “I don’t mean that. I mean, isn’t there a part of you, independent of everything else, that defines you? Something you’ve always felt, loved and known about?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Richard drew his hands out of the water and stood. As he dried his hands, he said, “Okay. Real Estate. It’s what you do, right? But have you always wanted to do it? Did you dream about it as a kid?”

  Ness laughed. “Of course not.”

  “That’s the difference. Writing . . . I dreamed about that. It isn’t what I do, but who I am.”

  Ness’s face was still red and dreamy from her bath and Richard had no idea if she understood what he was saying. He meant to say more, to make it clear how important it was to put passion above everything else, when the downstairs doorbell chimed. Richard’s mouth hung open, words about to be spoken.

  “That’s the food,” Ness said.

  “Right,” Richard said, heading for the bathroom door. Behind him, Ness closed her eyes and submerged herself deep into the warm water.

  ***

  Richard was hunkered down in front of his computer screen, soft lamplight spilling over one shoulder. He and Ness had finished supper a few hours earlier. After the leftovers were put into the fridge and the containers into the trash, Richard came upstairs to continue with his writing. Now Ness had found him, calling his name and drawing him out of his make-believe world.

  “Hey, babe,” Richard said, spinning around in his chair and pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

  Ness wore a silk negligee that highlighted her figure. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders.

  “You’ve been in here forever,” she said. “I thought I might get that foot rub before bed.” She smiled teasingly.

  “I want to wrap up what I’m doing. Okay?”

  Ness came over to the computer and peered over Richard’s shoulder. He felt a twinge of annoyance, as if his privacy were being intruded upon. It passed, however, when Ness put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Wow! You really have been working.”

  “That’s what I told you.”

  She read a few lines. “This is really good. Is it new?”

  Richard tapped his fingers absently on the keyboard. “Uh huh.”

  She stepped away from the computer. “Well, I’m glad you’ve had such a productive day. But . . . it’s getting late. Will you come to bed soon?”

  Richard nodded. “Right away. Promise.”

  Ness leaned down and kissed him. “I’ll be waiting.”

  After she’d gone, Richard swung his chair around again. The words on the screen glowed. In the past, even the slightest interruption had been an excuse to stop writing. Now, however, he easily slipped back into his story, finding the rhythm without so much as a missed step.

  The next time he leaned back in his chair and glanced at the clock, he was shocked to see that it was almost two a.m. Ness would be fast asleep by now. Richard felt a moment of guilt—he’d promised her that he would be coming to bed right away. Still, the guilt was assuaged by his sense of success and joy. God! It had been so long since the writing had been this good.

  He saved his work for the night and reached out to turn off the computer. After a moment, he reconsidered and opened up his email program.

  ***

  TO: mhunter@coolmail.com

  FROM: thesmalls@gmail.com

  SUBJECT: What a day

  Hey Mace, how’s it going?

  I just wrapped up the most incredible day of writing and I wanted to share it with someone. I finished up the revisions on ‘And This Too Shall Pass.’ I think that you were on the money with your suggestions. I’ll send you a copy and you can let me know what you think. I want to submit this one soon, as I feel good about it. And, believe it or not, I started two more stories today! This is coming from the guy who used to spend two weeks on one story. I think I have your influence to thank for the great output. I haven’t finished either of them yet, but when I do I’m going to share them with you (if you want to read them, that is). But . . . the point is, this was a pretty productive day. I don’t know how things are going to go tomorrow. I’ve got a lot on my plate with the Gazette and I know that it’s going to eat up most of my potential writing time. I guess that’s the curse of the working class. Maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll bring someone else in to shoulder some of the load. As I said before, at least I work from home.

  Thanks for the support and k
ind words regarding my writing. I try hard and I know I have the skills . . . but I need to focus now on discipline and dedication. As long as I have you standing in my shadow (or is it the other way around, ha-ha?), keeping me on track, things will work out. Also, it’s nice to have someone to talk to about all of this. I tried to explain my feelings to Ness tonight, but she doesn’t get it. She wants to, and I think she thinks she does, but she can’t fully understand. I think it’s only something us hacks can get, right? You’re a writer like me and I think you really get where I’m coming from. It helps to have someone to share things with.

  Anyhow, I should get to bed. Ness is already fast asleep (and she’ll likely be pretty upset at my late hours). I have to get up to work in the morning. In a perfect world, I could get up and go right back to my writing. But, I guess the only truly perfect worlds are the ones we make up.

  I’ll talk to you again tomorrow.

  Rich

  TO: thesmalls@gmail.com

  FROM: mhunter@coolmail.com

  SUBJECT: Different Angle of Attack

  Rich, it’s great to hear that you kicked some major ass today! I knew you had it in you if you got yourself on the right (or is that write?) track. You’ll have to send me the revised version of, ‘And This Too Shall Pass.’ I think that if you did it the way I think you should have, I know of a great magazine where it might find a home. Send me the other two whenever you get the chance. I’ve only read a bit of your writing, but I’m already a die-hard fan, and I think you know that.

  Sorry to hear that your wife doesn’t get how you feel about writing. Believe me, I haven’t found a single person who can relate. They seem to look at me with this blank, expectant expression, as if I am either fucking nuts, or talking another language. It’s probably even harder with a wife, who should know you inside and out. Oh well, you can’t have everything in common with someone, even a spouse. But thanks for sharing with me. If you ever have something that’s sticking in your brain, feel free to dump it on me. We might only know one another online, but I feel a real connection between us, Rich. Hell, I don’t have many close friends in the ‘real’ world . . . why not find someone in cyberspace.

  And man, do I know about work interfering with what I’m meant to be doing. Half the time I am kicking my own ass to keep things moving, and the rest of the time someone else seems to be kicking it for me. You know what I’d recommend? Another angle of attack. Instead of letting your job work against you, let it work for you. I mean . . . you work at home, right? Hammering out obits for a bunch of dead folks? Hell, push that stuff aside when you can and focus on your writing. The other stuff will get done. I say put what’s important first. Fuck the rest. What’s the worst they can do? Fire you from a job that sucks?