Excerpt:

1

“Forget it, Na’al Gerthunth. There’s no way you’ll make it back alive.”

Na’al Gerthunth looked the young lady in the eye, though somewhat emotional, hiding it deep inside. They both knew it would be a suicide mission.

“Re’ba Fal’fallaf, we are almost out of food. Our people have been beneath the surface of this planet for almost two years now. The disasters continue to make life uninhabitable above, but there is still food. If we don’t act now, the aliens from Zbartha will destroy what is left.”

“But you cannot do this alone...” The love that Re’ba Fal’fallaf had for Na’al Gerthunth was evident, not only to the two of them, but to all of the survivors of the Ter’rah civilization.

“There could be a chance,” Na’al Gerthunth started. “The legend still holds true. Excelsior, the hero of legend, still has not come. He might protect us in our last hour.”

“Those are just stories, Na’al Gerthunth. Mere fairy tales.”

“But it’s all we have to go on!

It was evident that his love would not be able to convince him to stay. It was for the good of the people—the survival of the civilization and of the entire Ter’rah race.

---

Charles Johns took his left hand to the bridge of his nose, rubbing it in an attempt to work the muscles that were tensing at the front of his face. After reading about three pages of a novel excerpt given to him by a potential client, he could already tell that this rated among the top ten worst things he had ever read. He glanced up with his eyes, peering at the man who had brought him this excerpt with the hopes of getting it published.

“Mr. Belville,” started the publisher. “I appreciate the work you’ve put into this and the patience in allowing us to review it…” Johns paused, looking at the aspiring author across his table, sitting with open eyes, a look of hope, unadulterated from any chance of despair or disappointment. It was almost as if he stared into the face of a six year old child waiting to hear back from his first-grade teacher on how well he did on a spelling test. Johns was used to ‘giving the bad news’ to many fresh-on-the-street first time writers as well as a slew of hack writers looking to make a quick buck, but he struggled to find a way to tactfully deny such a comically innocent face.

Finally finishing his thought, Johns continued. “I don’t believe that this novel that you’re working on… fits our target demographic for readers.”

The writer sitting across the table kept his demeanor, though a hint of disappointment started to creep across his face, forcing his eyes and the sides of his mouth to droop a bit. “Oh. Um, what would be that demographic?” he queried, taken back a slight bit by the initial thought of let-down.

Thinking of how to answer, Johns gave up his attempt to feel bad and wryly replied, “The fourteen to sixty-five age range.”

Johns assumed that Mr. Belville got the unspoken answer that was meant—that his novel had no target audience and was destined for disaster. The writer thought to himself for a minute, appearing to get the point. Looking up again, however, he put on a bargaining face. “Well, what if I changed some of the characters? I could make the main male character more like Andy Griffith to appeal to the sixty-somethings…”

The publisher put his hand up to stop his suggestions. “I’m sorry, Mr. Belville. I’m afraid that this just isn’t a good story.”

Johns returned the typed excerpt back to his wouldn’t-be client along with a glance that gave a simple ‘I’m sorry’, hoping to end the transaction without bad blood or any loud words as there had been with others in the past.

“I see,” replied Norman Belville as he took the excerpt back, sliding it back into a red pocket-folder he had used to protect it on his trip there. The disappointed writer stood from his chair, motivating the business-savvy publisher to stand as well. Johns offered his hand in a farewell handshake, once again to solidify the good terms of the departure. Norman took his hand, though the shake didn’t carry much power, as manly handshakes go.

A combination of mixed emotions started to show up on the writer’s face as he turned to head out the door. It was obvious to Charles Johns that Norman Belville wasn’t a man who took disappointment or let-down very well. ‘Sad,’ he thought to himself, wondering if he was the first one to ever turn this writer down.

Johns made to turn back and sit in his chair when Norman spoke up again. “I’ve got another story. A mystery story about an old man who dies and leaves this big inheritance…”

“Good day, Mr. Belville,” interrupted Johns. This time, it would seem, Norman got the point. The publisher watched as the wouldn’t-be writer left his office. Johns shook his head slowly, wagging as he wondered which fact was worse: The fact that a man like Norman Belville was so immune to knowing how bad his stories were or that he was so unwilling to accept that his stories were bad. A churning in the pit of his stomach told Charles Johns that he hadn’t seen the last of Mr. Belville.