“Rivet!” said the frog in a charming contralto.
“Cunegunda!” cried Sonderborg. “Cunegunda, is that really you?”
“You mean Masterson didn’t explain, Sondy?” asked Natalie, swallowing a hard-boiled egg. “Well, to make a long story short, without Donnabella’s wand I can’t change you back. But I can change you forward, if you follow my meaning. I mean you don’t really have too far to go in that direction, anyway. And your wonderful Cunegunda here thought it might be easier for you to make your mind up if she was waiting for you on the other side, so to speak.”
How Sonderborg’s heart went out to the plump little frog! He took a deep breath. “Then let’s not keep her waiting,” he said firmly. Masterson flew down with the traditional blindfold and cigarette. Sonderborg refused them both with a rather theatrical gesture.
“Nor do I want your pity,” he declared. “Far better to be a simple sow’s ear in some rustic setting with one’s loving mate at one’s side than to be a frivolous silk purse eating alone from plates of gold in a city that has become a sham and a shambles.”
Taking one last look around him, he squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head. Natalie’s wand hit him a solid blow. Count Sonderborg flickered and became a haze. The haze condensed down and down until it formed a big round frog. With a hop and a plop and another hop, he was up on the lily pad and looking deep into Cunegunda’s wonderful chestnut eyes.
“Rivet!” they sang together, contralto and baritone joyfully combined.
Writers Anonymous
by Leland Neville
© 1988 by Leland Neville.
Leland Neville has had short stories published in various magazines since his first, “The Morgue,” in the November 1983 EQMM. As for this one, think Ray Bradbury, George Orwell, Aldous Huxley...
I recently failed my third — and last — attempt to become a licensed writer. The competition for one of these coveted licenses is intense and the judging strict but fair. There are only a few openings a year — contrary to what you may believe, most of our writers live long lives — and since a bestseller is lucky to be read by two thousand people, the State’s position, no matter how great its desire to support the arts, is difficult. There is, after all, only so much money.
The woman (I think I know who she is) who reported me took the right action; it’s usually easier to just look the other way. The time I stole from the company to write is money stolen from the State and therefore money stolen from the sick. And if I have the energy to write after my work assignment, in my apartment — well, I now understand that that energy could be put to more productive uses. Valueless creativity steals from everyone, including ourselves.
We are fortunate that writing without a license is usually considered not a crime but a disease. I have today heard about the crueler, less informed times, and what can I say except I’m glad to be alive here and today. I will never write again. It has been a bad habit. I will henceforth produce only goods of value. I understand I can never be a licensed writer. No exceptions. No one will ever read my words. I accept this. I am grateful for this program and I have the number to call should the muse be more persistent than I believe. My final ten minutes of writing is now almost over. I am just filling the remaining time with words, anxious to close this sorry chapter of my life. I am tired of writing. Bored. I have nothing to say. Just a few more seconds. They won’t let us stop. Part of the therapy. Only a few more seconds.
There is a burning flush in my legs that began with the soles of my feet. Hot. Hotter. Hottest. They force the pencil back into my hand. “Write,” they command. “Write. It doesn’t matter what you write as long as you write — write about the pain, write our words. We don’t care what you write. Just write.” I drop the pencil and the pain, the burning, shoots through me. I write these words and it decreases. I understand.
“We’re fully licensed. We know what we’re doing. You won’t die or suffer any permanent physical injury. And the good part is you will never write again. This aversion therapy is very successful when employed by licensed people. We, by the way, have second-class licenses. You will soon always associate writing with pain. For most of us that’s natural, but there are a few who need our help.”
It was just an idea for a story. I wasn’t necessarily going to write the story, I just didn’t want to forget the idea. The pain increases. Burning.
“You have put yourself through too much in order to obtain a third-class writer’s license. With one of those, you’re only an anonymous word assembler. You never get a byline. You could never reach the two-thousand-readership mark that would earn you a permanent first-class license, you must know that. A third-rank wasn’t much of an ambition. You’ll thank us someday.” The burning increases. “Write.” The burning increases. “Don’t repeat yourself. Anything but that. Write. That’s better.”
The idea. It hasn’t diminished. Isolated, unaware of each other’s existence, sharing a common, no, an uncommon thought, the unlicensed begin to communicate and create. The authorities (maybe an eavesdropper reports them to the State) become aware of the unlicensed ones and of course are threatened. The State has lost its monopoly on words. What powers have these people obtained? How did they get them? Who gave them to them? And of course the big question: what do they plan to do with their power?
“Next time you feel the urge to write,” one of the licensed aversionists tells me, “call the number Writers Anonymous gave you.”
“I don’t think,” the other aversionist says, “he’ll need the number or us again. This should do it. And one step closer to being first-rank.”
Except for my ankle monitor, I am naked and my clothes are in shreds. “Write,” the bigger one commands. Except for their statures they are nearly identical. “Keep writing. Don’t stop. Experts will look over your words. They’ll find the real meaning. You can’t expect to fool the top-rankers. We know you wrote something, we just can’t find it.”
“Maybe he ate it,” the smaller one says. The bigger one ignores him.
“Just write what you wrote about twenty minutes ago. At two-twelve. That’s when the ankle monitor detected writing.”
“The seal on his ankle monitor has not been tampered with,” says the smaller.
“Of course not!” yells the bigger. “That’s how we picked up the writing. And in the ten minutes it took us to get here, no one saw him leave his cubicle. He doesn’t have access to a videowriter, we haven’t found any paper or even pencils—”
“And now he’s just copying our words,” says the smaller. “Unless he was pretending to write. Can the monitor tell the difference between really writing and pretending to write?”
“Why would anyone do that? Do you think he’s having fun? And it could lead to more shocks.”
“Look!” The smaller one grabs my left arm while my right keeps writing. “He’s scratched something into his flesh. A couple of words.”
“We’re going to have to make him stop writing. I think this is considered an unusual circumstance that forces us to break orders.”
I have resumed writing. I am still naked. The smaller one is searching for a camera so my forearm can be documented on film. I have promised that when a camera is found I will stop writing and be absolutely still so a clear photo of my arm can be taken. The bigger one would like me, of course, to expand on the two words scratched — with just a fingernail — into my arm. POWER COMM. It was just an idea for that story. “It is not,” I say, “power to the Communists.” The only ideas they are familiar with are recycled ones. Neither, I am certain, believes that writing can give birth to ideas. “You don’t have to start with an idea,” I say.