by Bill Tope
1
Alicia Menendez frowned unhappily down at the rejection slip clutched in her fingers. Just home from work, she had printed it out from an email she received only minutes ago. Alicia had subbed this mag only four days ago and they lost no time in turning down her story. Most journals waited at least a month before pulling the plug, but these guys, the editors of a fetid rag titled Miasmic Meat, a so-called horror magazine, seemed almost too eager to break her heart.
The land line jangled and Alicia picked up.
“We on for Friday night, Allie?” inquired a familiar voice.
Alicia smiled. “Spaghetti alright?” she asked, knowing it was Larry’s favorite. She prepared in almost every week for the home cooked meal they shared.
“Can I bring anything?” he asked, like he always did.
“Just yourself,” she told him and after some billing and cooing, they disconnected.
Her boyfriend, thought Alicia, was the one thing going right in her life. Alicia was 25 years old, pretty and chronically frustrated at everything. All she really sought was to have a decent love life and to excel at something, to make her mark — at anything. She had lots of ideas. Her foray into the Small Press began two years ago, at about the same time she found employment with Mercer Industries, where she worked in marketing and likewise expressed herself creatively. By writing short stories, she had been trying to spread her wings. Curling her pink lips into a pout, she crumpled up the sheet of paper and cast it in the direction of the waste can. It missed. And the night wore on. In between pounding away on her keyboard on a new story, Alicia culled additional disspiriting emails from her Inbox.
The next rejection notice was, like the first, a sheet of boilerplate, this one from a mag which called itself Shit ‘n’ Stuff, a putative literary magazine whose title, Alicia thought, was too cute by half. She paused her perusal to pull a bottle of stout from the mini-fridge under the PC table and twist off the cap. Shaking her auburn curls at the unfairness of things, she tipped the green-hued bottle back and took a swig. She checked the time on her monitor: 6pm; seemed she was hitting the sauce earlier than usual. But, like some bon vivant — George Sanders? — had once observed, it was cocktail hour somewhere in the world.
After the first three emails, Alicia ceased printing out the rejections; the expense of paper was just an insult on top of injury. She glared blearily at the monitor screen.
Hi Alicia! she read. Cheeky bastards, she thought. Thank you so much for submitting to “Congealed Fat Magazine.” Although we read your submission with great interest — Bullshit! thought Alicia, furrowing her brow — we do not have a place for it in our next issue. Eat me! she raged inwardly. Please remember us by submitting for future issues. Regards! “Regard this,” muttered Alicia, and flipped off the editors; then she felt rather ridiculous at the impotent gesture.
The PC beeped. Alicia glanced down at the screen and saw that she had yet another response to one of her submissions incoming.
“C’mon, bring good news this time!” she implored the fates, and bit her lower lip. She bent to read the blue-tinted message from the submissions manager.
“Thanks, Alicia Menendez, she read. After careful scrutiny of your submission, we have decided that what you sent us is NOT something that we cannot live without. All the best.
Adam Griesedick, editor-in-chief, Mouthful Magazine.
Hours later, after the denouement of another long evening online, Alicia pulled a third bottle of stout from the mini-fridge, shook out a capsule of oxy- and slipped it between her lips. Her shoulders slumped.
2
In the lunchroom at work on Thursday, the frustrated writer was confronted by a familiar face. “Hi Alicia,” greeted Randy, a co-worker who worked for legal and who was forever trying to get into her pants. She half-smiled crookedly up at him. “How’s the writing career coming along?” he inquired with what seemed like genuine interest. She raised one shoulder enigmatically, let in fall again. “You know,” he went on, “I’ve seen your work in Marketing; it’s damn good. You’re a hell of a copywriter. Maybe you should be judging others’ work, you know what I mean?” Randy smiled toothily and moved onto the dessert rack, leaving Alicia to stare thoughtfully after him.
Why the hell not? she thought to herself.
Alicia had been heavily subbing — the pejorative term was carpet-bombing — the Small Press for almost two years when she decided to make the change from contributor to editor/publisher. What should she do first? she wondered. After carefully consulting Professor Google, she settled on the most economical online platform — she immediately eschewed print as too expensive, unnecessary and too much of a hassle — and swiftly got her house in order. She contacted some web sites she had unearthed from an old copy of Writer’s Digest. By this means, Alicia sent out a half-assed call for submissions. She briefly considered engaging a submissions manager, by which means she could monetize the project and streamline it somewhat, and maybe pay for a part-time assistant and even offer a token payment to those writers she published. But, she hated submission fees herself, so for the time being she decided against it. After the submission calls went out, she sat back contentedly in her little wooden chair before the PC. Hey, she thought smugly, this is easy.
3
“I want to help other aspiring writers, Larry,” she earnestly told her lover of one year at dinner on Friday night, one day before the official launch. She had been yakking for 20 minutes, explaining to her boyfriend what she hoped to accomplish with her entry into the publishing ranks of the Small Press. Larry, as usual chewing loudly with his mouth open, merely grunted around a forkful of spaghetti. Alicia winced. She hated that! “Well,” she asked finally, “what do you think?” Larry took up the white linen napkin that Alicia had thoughtfully laid out and wiped his greasy lips on it.
“Let’s fuck,” he said.
. . . . .
Alicia had decided to accept only email submissions, as Word documents. Just keep it simple, she thought. That first night, a Saturday, she was pleasantly surprised to receive several submissions in her Inbox, along with the regular flood of spam.
Alicia’s original idea for a journal was a unique twist on publishing. Rather than reply by email to the stories she received, she would run her critiques on-site at the time of publication. This would afford the writers almost immediate gratification, as well as the benefit of her superior knowledge and experience. Alicia knew that writers hated waiting for the mostly negative responses. Most of all, this scheme was responsible for and responsive to, the real hook: put downs. She would publish only specimens of flash fiction which merited her scorn, which she would levy with abandon. It had been done before, she knew, but her own idea was a bit more radical.
That first month, a typical critique ran like this:
Dear Ernie:
I found your plot confusing, your dialogue stilted and your language immature. Better luck next time. Keep submitting!
Alicia
Another went this way:
Dear Marilyn:
I sincerely hope that your own sex life outstrips that of the misshapen, cardboard characters in your miserable prose. Some women do orgasm, you know. Try us again.
Alicia
And so on.
Alicia had decided to name the magazine after its principal reason for existing. She called it Scold.
At work on Monday, Alicia again encountered the always horny Randy. She had confided to her co-worker that she was starting her own literary magazine and she found him to be encouraging — unlike some people she knew.
“Sit for a coffee, Alicia?” asked Randy.
She grabbed a coffee and then a seat.
“How is the new magazine coming?” he asked her, all blue eyes and white teeth.
“It’s only been up for two days,” she explained. “I’ve received a total of eight submissions.”
“Not bad,” he said. “How many do you expect, per month?”
Alicia blinked. She didn’t know. She hadn’t actually thought that far ahead. Apart for her own hypercritical remarks on the few stories she had published, she hadn’t gotten too involved yet.
“If I can get one hundred or two hundred a month, then I’ll be pretty well set,” she opined in total ignorance. How long would it even take to peruse a hundred stories? she wondered. She had arbitrarily capped the word limit at 1,000. Randy was talking again. Alicia turned to listen.
“I helped a pal put together a journal back in college. If you ever need a volunteer reader, you know, to whittle down the slush pile, give me a ring, okay?”
She nodded. He tore a page from his tablet of foolscap that all the attorneys brandished, scribbled and then handed it to Alicia. “There’s my number. I’m free most evenings,” he told her.
“Thanks Randy, I’ll keep you in mind. I need to see how it goes, how many subs I get, how much time I need to spend on the project. Thanks!” She smiled and folded the paper away into her purse.
Randy smiled and stared at her chest.
By the next Friday, Alicia was so swamped with work on Scold that time got away from her and she didn’t have a chance to prepare dinner for her boyfriend. Every day, when he called to check in on her, she had been preoccupied with the magazine and had given him short shrift. He had seemed a little put out by her devotion to her new obsession. So, when Larry arrived at six, he was in a peevish mood.
“What the hell, Alicia?” he grumbled. “This is supposed to be our night.”
Alicia, with a red pencil clutched between her teeth, looked up from the pile of emailed stories she’d run off on her printer and frowned. “If this is our night, then why don’t you cook for a change? I figure by this time you’re running a fifty-dinner deficit. It wouldn’t bankrupt you to take me out to dinner for a change, or at least get freakin’ take-out, Larry, for God’s sake!”
“You cook,” he acknowledged, “but I make it up to you.” And he smirked.
Alicia rolled her eyes. “With what, your body? That body?” she asked incredulously.
Larry’s lips tightened.
“I knew there was a reason that your old girlfriend called you Mr. Five Minutes, but I had hoped you’d grow out of that behavior.” Now she smirked, but wondered where the sarcasm was coming from. It wasn’t like her and she wasn’t sure she cared for it.
“It’s that damn magazine,” grumbled Larry, pointing at the PC, “It’s changed you, Alicia. You’re never available. And you’re hypercritical now. You criticize everything I do!”
Alicia said nothing. She was used to being in charge now and didn’t appreciate being challenged or criticized herself anymore. She relished her new position of relative power.
They glared at one another for a moment, before Larry broke eye contact and said, “Maybe we need a break.” Alicia’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “I’ll call you in a couple of weeks,” he said, and then fled the apartment.
Shit! thought Alicia. Larry was sometimes a bit of a pill, but he was loyal and rather undemanding and didn’t cheat on her. But then her thoughts wandered and she considered a truly awful short story that a writer had submitted. She’d give that writer what for, she decided. It was her duty, she told herself. Larry called every day for a week after their kerfuffle, but Alicia, still miffed, and busy, busy, busy, never picked up. The calls soon stopped.
4
Over the ensuing months, Scold developed a cachet. To appear in an exclusive magazine — Alicia accepted less than 5% of the submissions she received — and then get your ass eaten out, in real time, by the editor-in-chief, was just too rich. No one could resist it. It became a badge of distinction; sort of like owning a Pet Rock. After three months, Alicia was receiving a dozen subs daily and often, after she had selected the three very worst stories, or just the first three stories, which she would publish that day, she would pitch the other nine stories into the trash, unread. That way, she kept up. She had been careful to include in the submission guidelines an admonition that she could not, because of the high volume of submissions, offer critiques or even formal rejections of the stories that didn’t make the cut. Alicia advised writers to monitor the site and if, after one week, their story did not appear, then they should consider it a failed effort.
One disgruntled writer sent the magazine an angry email, asking where the editor got off not even taking the time to send out a simple rejection note. Alicia responded regally by promptly banishing the offender from the pages of Scold. A day later, the culprit emailed an abject apology and after a day or so, Alicia publicly forgave him.
Alicia, who had but a Bachelor’s degree in General Psychology, as well as a minor in Creative Writing, nevertheless addressed not only the writers’ literary shortcomings, but their personality quirks as well. Sometimes she was short with them; other times increasingly brutal:
Dear Bruce:
I wish you hadn’t written this piece. I say that because I had dinner shortly before reading it and I vomited up an otherwise delicious meatloaf and mashed potatoes.
Alicia
And then:
Dear Bella:
Congratulations are in order: in the six months that Scold has been published, this is absolutely the worst flash fiction I’ve ever read. I hope you get run over by an Uber!
Alicia
There were comments on the stories from other readers, as well. And they, likewise, were harsh. A sort of horrible group think pervaded the readers of Scold and a cult of personality crystalized around Alicia. She could do no wrong. It was like being heckled by the 1970s comedian Don Rickles; everybody ate it up and wanted to be the crash test dummy on the receiving end of her sadism. At first, it was just schtick, but as the pages of time turned over, Alicia began to feel a visceral sense of command.
Alicia perhaps achieved the apex of her scorn in Scold no. 300. In that issue, she published a story by one Elmer Dweet, who had been published — and pilloried — by Alicia and her caustic clutch of literary groupies on two previous occasions. Alicia took him to task:
Dear Elmer (Or should I say, Shit for Brains?):
In the first place, you are two words over limit, you flaccid little shitheel. Can’t you count? 1000 words is not an arbitrary figure, you know. There is a reason for it. The reason is none of your damn business, you literary parasite. Why don’t you save me the trouble in the future and just drink Drano tonight?
Alicia
Alicia pressed “Publish” and scampered off to bed. She no longer needed the stout or the oxy- to sleep.
5
Police detectives interviewed Alicia two days later at Mercer Industries. Extracting her from the breakroom, they escorted her to an isolated office provided by her bosses, and introduced themselves as Detectives Rust and Isom.
“How long did you know Mr. Dweet, Ms. Menendez?” asked Rust, who was apparently in charge of the investigation.
“Who?” asked Alicia. She was poor at names, particularly in light of the hundreds of writers’ names she had encountered in the previous year.
Rust showed her a black and white photo of a nondescript man with a harmless look. Alicia didn’t recognize it.
“I don’t know him, Detective,” she said.
“Our online records indicate that Mr. Dweet made contact with you on nine occasions in the past ten months.” He began to read off dates.
“Where?” she asked, flustered.
“At your online journal, ma’am,” Isom put in, speaking for the first time. “Our records indicate that he contacted you on nine occasions and that his writing appeared on three occasions in your journal,” he added. She stared at him. Did Isom just wink at her?
Then it all came back to her. “Elmer,” she said, remembering. “Yes, I remember now. But, I never met him personally, or ever even talked to him. What is this all about, Detectives?” she asked, thoroughly perplexed.
“Ms. Menendez,” said Rust, seizing the reins of control again, “Elmer Dweet shot up a neighborhood and wounded three people, none of the fatally, thankfully”.
Alicia’s mind was all awhirl. “Oh my God,” she exclaimed. “I had no idea that one of my readers was capable of that behavior. Has he been taken into custody? Is he still on the loose? Am I in any danger?” she asked hurriedly, glancing nervously around.
“Mr. Dweet is deceased,” said the detective.
“Was there a shoot out?” asked Alicia with relish. “Did you shoot that monster?”
Rust shook his head no. “No, ma’am, Elmer Dweet died by his own hand early this morning.”
“How?” she asked softly, somehow already knowing the answer.
“He ingested the contents of a can of Drano.”
6
There was never any question of legal liability on Alicia’s part. She had appended the necessary disclaimers and wherefores and what not to the Submission Guidelines during the sixth month of the magazine’s operation, courtesy of her new boyfriend, Randy, who was of course an attorney. Randy had in fact been instrumental in further developing the caustic nature of the magazine, and he frequently wrote the sadistic remarks ascribed to Alicia. Randy was, she discovered, a bit of a passive-regressive personality bleeding unexpectedly into S&M tendencies, a personality quirk that was thankfully not shared by Larry. On the other hand, Randy didn’t chew with his mouth open.
Following the tragic demise of Dweet, Alicia began to withdraw, bit by bit, into a shell, and Randy became the dominant figure at Scold. With a degree in Accounting as well as Law, he was well configured to take the journal to the next level. He engaged a submissions manager and began charging first $5 and then $10 and finally $15 per submission. And the number of submissions increased drastically, too. Within a matter of a few months, the magazine was grossing in excess of $300,000 per year, while yet remaining a basically one-person operation.
“I think we should run a contest; perhaps a series of contests,” urged Randy one day.
“Whatever you say,” she blithely agreed.
“We’ll offer a $1,500 Grand Prize and charge a $50 entry fee,” he went on, and she only nodded and said “Yes, okay.”
Before long, Randy was engineering changes and making decisions at Scold without even consulting the erstwhile editor-in-chief. Alicia ceased writing entirely, and with more energy to devote to her day job, received a promotion at work. Randy now worked only part-time there. Ultimately, he severed his relationship with Mercer and devoted himself full-time to the magazine. Romantically, Alicia found Randy unambitious at best, indifferent at worst.
“Randy,” asked Alicia one day over breakfast — he had moved in months before — “what is the Bizarro Pushcart Prize?”
Randy grinned toothily, the way he did, and replied, “As you know, my… our magazine has spawned a legion of copycat journals, mags that leverage the big put-down to aspiring writers…”
Alicia nodded. She’d heard… something, but hadn’t had much to do with it.
“Well, anyway,” went on Randy enthusiastically, “one of the other editors came up with the idea to hold a sort of negative Pushcart Prizes for the dopey losers who patronize our magazines. It’ll be the worst of the worst! We’ll call it the ‘Bizarro Pushcarts,’ after Bizarro World, the dystopian world of the characters in the Superman comic books; get it?” He grinned stupidly.
Alicia stared at him blankly. She’d never read comic books. “But,” she asked reasonably, “who would want to be awarded for being a terrible writer?”
“Who would want to be torn a new asshole in a national daily magazine for writing shitty stories?”, Randy came back at her.
Alicia shrugged. He has a point, she thought. The world was filled with masochists.
“Hey,” said Randy, taking up a bundle of documents, “you need to sign some stuff,” and he pushed it all in front of Alicia.
“What is this?” she asked with little interest.
“Business,” he said enigmatically. “Sign here,” he told her, handing her a pen, and she appended her signature where he indicated.
“Gotta get to work,” she said, and leaned in for a kiss, but Randy was already busy and so she withdrew and left for the office.
7
While at the office that morning, Alicia went online and clicked on Scold. She had washed her hands of the magazine and had not even perused it for several months; what she saw gave her pause: it was a bizarre panoply of sado-masochism, bondage, anti-Semitic tropes, homophobic screeds and much worse. She searched urgently for the masthead, saw there no trace of her own name. Thank God! she thought with relief. Under editor and publisher she spied Randy Berger, Esq. She shook her head sadly. Today was by chance the celebratory 1,000th issue of Scold. Alicia’s heart nearly stopped. She felt so ashamed. In her snail mail, she discovered a card, then remembered: today was her 28th birthday; Randy hadn’t said a word about it. She slid a finger under the flap on the envelope and took out a handmade birthday card. It was from Larry! Her heart melted and she felt a tear roll down her cheek. He sent one every year at this time. Sweet, sweet man, she thought.
Years ago, Alicia had set out to accomplish two things: find a decent boyfriend and make a mark. She’d accomplished neither. She had started a magazine, an odd one, yes, but with the best intentions, and had been inveigled out of it. She was gratified that she was no longer associated with that rag. And as for Randy as a boyfriend? She drew a deep breath and let it out again. Three years ago, perhaps she had been too hasty. Sitting at her desk, she placed a call, hoping the number was still good.
“Larry?” she said.
8
“You know, I never knew why you broke up with me, Allie,” said Larry, sitting across the table from her at an Applebee’s restaurant several weeks later. The waitstaff had just delivered a tiny birthday cake for Alicia and sung happy birthday. Her face was still bright from embarrassment and joy.
“You didn’t seem to be interested in what interested me. Also, it was your chewing with your mouth open,” she explained. “I’m misophonic and it drives me crazy. I’m sorry, I should’ve told you. You don’t do it now,” she noted.
“My next girlfriend gave me grief for it,” he admitted, chewing quietly. “I wish you’d told me, Allie,” he said. “I was always so into you, and then when you started the magazine, things just went all to hell.”
“I’m sorry, too, Larry,” said Alicia. “I had some issues and some growing up to do and I guess now I’ve done it.”
He smiled at her and she smiled back.
“So what’s happening with the new boyfriend?”, he inquired.
“He’s history,” replied Alicia. “A relic. I officially moved out two weeks ago; he signed the lease, put the apartment in his own name.”
“Good,” said Larry, and they exchanged another warm smile.
“I’ve been keeping track of the magazine,” admitted Larry.
She looked up at him. “And?” she prompted.
Larry shook his head. “Wow!”
‘I know,” said Alicia. “I had nothing to do with the way it finally turned out.”
“I knew that,” said Larry confidently. “Do you,” he asked cagily, “wanna come back to my place tonight? I can show you my… etchings?” He grinned.
“I’ve already seen most of your etchings,” she told him winsomely, “but yes. I need to stop by the apartment one last time and pick up some things, is that okay?”
Larry agreed and after dinner they motored through the city to what was now Randy’s apartment. Alicia was shocked to find there the same two policemen that she’d encountered two years before: Detectives Rust and Isom. Isom answered the door and allowed only Alicia to enter.
“I’ll meet up with you at your apartment when I’m through here, Larry,” she told him. He departed.
“What’s going on, Detective?” she asked. Randy was nowhere about.
“Another casualty of the magazine wars,” replied Isom cryptically.
“Umm?” she asked.
“Another wild child, Ms. Menendez,” said Isom. “Man got rebuffed on his prose entry in a Scold contest and took it out on some innocents.”
Rebuffed? thought Alicia. “What happened?” she asked.
“Your ex-boyfriend, the current editor of Scold magazine, called a man named Adam Bede everything but a white man and vilified and excoriated him for his prose submission.”
Vilified? she asked herself. And excoriated? This guy probably performed beyond expectations on the SAT Verbal test. She winced at the subtle racism of Isom’s remarks.
“What did he do?” she asked.
“Took up an AR-15 and shot to death five people, three of them children,” replied the detective grimly. “What do you know about it?” he asked.
Alicia just imagined the heartbreak of the families of the victims and the perpetrator and felt sick. She shook her head sadly. “Detective,” she told him, “my hands are clean. I’m not even on the masthead.”
“I know,” he said, and smiled in relief. “The DA is really going to stick it to Mr. Berger,” he told her, “make an example of him. This lack of personal regard, of basic civility, is destroying our society; it has got to stop.”
“I know nothing of this matter, Detective,” said Alicia. “May I go now?”
“Yes ma’am,” the detective replied, opening the apartment door. “You know, if I’d known before today that you were on the loose, I would’ve been on your doorstep,” he said wistfully.
“Keep talking, Detective,” she told him with a smile, “and you might get an invitation to the wedding.”