Word Count
by Antony Shaw
As he left the house that morning, Lucy launched her engagement ring at him. He wanted their daughter Samantha to grow up proud of him. Samantha had a fever, but Erich was determined to hit his word count. His publishers were excited.
The chilly winds in the high street seemed to blow Erich to a new place: Cafekaesque. A sign: “Welcome Writers!”
Inside, it smelt of frothed milk and coffee.
A young woman with a septum piercing greeted him.
“Welcome, I’m Astral! Have you been before?”
Erich shook his head.
“Let me tell you how we work. We welcome writers to submit their word count for the day, and we make sure you hit it. All you have to do is buy a drink and write. Sound good?”
“‘Course.”
“Super. Just jot down your word count on this piece of paper and I’ll take it with your order.”
Erich jotted down his word count, handed it to the girl and ordered a pot of Earl Grey. He watched Astral walk away as he took a seat. Her gait pleased him.
He studied his partially completed story. Where am I going with this? How am I going to hit my word count? Just put something down. You can edit it later.
He scratched out a sentence; read it back. That’s crap. Hit delete. Took a sip of tea and glanced around the room. People hammered their keyboards. Don’t panic. Even Tolkien had bad days.
Fifty words. Erich shut the laptop and headed for the toilet. It smelt bleachy, like Lucy’s hands on Sunday mornings. He shook and put it away.
He thought it best to postpone. Go home and start again tomorrow. Fuck it!
As he headed back to his table, he saw his laptop was open. Astral stood in his path. “Sit down and write.” She thrust a biscuit into his mouth and looked at his work. “Not even close,” she said. “Drink more tea.”
She was gone.
Erich sat. His hands were cold rakes—incapable of typing. Colours bled together. His mouth filled with thick saliva. Every customer ground their teeth. Left, right, left, right, left, right.
“Shut up!”
Left, right, left, right, left, right...
“Shut the fuck up!”
Left, right, left, right, left, right...
Silence.
He drank more tea and typed. Lose yourself in the words, Erich. Was it the hope that was killing him? The publishers had said they were excited. Did they say that to everyone? Probably, but then again maybe not. Erich was embarrassed about his family background, which in turn made him feel ashamed of himself. He did not want the same for Samantha.
Astral walked by and smiled.
A paragraph. Not his best. But on the page. Tea went through him. He headed for the toilet. She was in there. Stood waiting.
“What are you doing?” he said, at the door.
“Astral pulled him in. Her breasts against his chest. She kissed his neck.
It grew. “I can’t. Sorry!” Samantha and Lucy flashed across his mind.
“Fuck me. Fuck me. Lucy won’t know. Samantha wants a brother.” How does she know their names? A bolt of pain as Astral ripped his ear from his head. Blood ran warm down his neck. The smell of iron filled his nose. Erich screamed.
It was over.
Astral was gone. He clamped his ears. Both were there. No blood. Thank fuck! Erich should have been disappointed. He couldn’t force it. He splashed cold water on his face and thought about his word count.
He sat and typed. A few minutes of success ensued. Pain jolted through his fingers. He enjoyed the pain, like an ulcer you can’t help but finger. Key strikes wore his fingers down to fleshy stubs. Blood smudged across the keyboard. Astral brought napkins.
“Need a top up?” she said.
“Definitely,” Erich replied.
He checked his word count. Not bad.
Astral left him with a brimming pot. Erich poured and missed his cup. Boiling tea scolded his hand. The pain turned him on. He didn’t stop. His flesh melted like hot candle wax. Colours mixed. He filled his teacup with the pulpy flesh and muscle. He ran the boiling tea up his arm. Flesh and muscle fell away like a well-cooked pork tenderloin.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Huh?”
“Sorry, sir,” the writer said. “Your coat just fell from your chair.”
“Thanks.” Erich checked his word count. Close.
His phone buzzed. A text. Lucy: “Samantha is struggling. Hurry back.” Fine, he thought. He closed the laptop. He saw something on the floor, something that was previously obscured by the laptop. On his hands and knees, he saw an ear. He felt the side of his head. A wet hole. Astral stood before him. She pushed him with a sharp heel.
“Look on my works ye mighty and despair!” Her voice, bestial.
Erich craned his neck, saw the kitchen door licked by green flames. Indescribable forms crawled from the fire. Beasts of the ancient world unleashed to feast on humankind. Erich watched as countless things poured out. People devoured. Heads squeezed. Teeth shattered and eyes burst. He smiled. Willed more. The demons kept coming. He watched them possess and slaughter all.
“Shit! Lucy and Samantha?”
Astral helped Erich up.
“You okay?” she asked.
Silence.
“The word count?” Astral said. “Did you hit it?” He had: 666.
His house was dark and cold. He flicked on a light. A note. Lucy. She had left and took Samantha with her. She said he needed to get his priorities in order. Wished him luck with Astral.
Erich’s novel was published. Samantha would be proud. He enjoyed his riches alone.
The chilly winds in the high street seemed to blow Erich to a new place: Cafekaesque. A sign: “Welcome Writers!”
Inside, it smelt of frothed milk and coffee.
A young woman with a septum piercing greeted him.
“Welcome, I’m Astral! Have you been before?”
Erich shook his head.
“Let me tell you how we work. We welcome writers to submit their word count for the day, and we make sure you hit it. All you have to do is buy a drink and write. Sound good?”
“‘Course.”
“Super. Just jot down your word count on this piece of paper and I’ll take it with your order.”
Erich jotted down his word count, handed it to the girl and ordered a pot of Earl Grey. He watched Astral walk away as he took a seat. Her gait pleased him.
He studied his partially completed story. Where am I going with this? How am I going to hit my word count? Just put something down. You can edit it later.
He scratched out a sentence; read it back. That’s crap. Hit delete. Took a sip of tea and glanced around the room. People hammered their keyboards. Don’t panic. Even Tolkien had bad days.
Fifty words. Erich shut the laptop and headed for the toilet. It smelt bleachy, like Lucy’s hands on Sunday mornings. He shook and put it away.
He thought it best to postpone. Go home and start again tomorrow. Fuck it!
As he headed back to his table, he saw his laptop was open. Astral stood in his path. “Sit down and write.” She thrust a biscuit into his mouth and looked at his work. “Not even close,” she said. “Drink more tea.”
She was gone.
Erich sat. His hands were cold rakes—incapable of typing. Colours bled together. His mouth filled with thick saliva. Every customer ground their teeth. Left, right, left, right, left, right.
“Shut up!”
Left, right, left, right, left, right...
“Shut the fuck up!”
Left, right, left, right, left, right...
Silence.
He drank more tea and typed. Lose yourself in the words, Erich. Was it the hope that was killing him? The publishers had said they were excited. Did they say that to everyone? Probably, but then again maybe not. Erich was embarrassed about his family background, which in turn made him feel ashamed of himself. He did not want the same for Samantha.
Astral walked by and smiled.
A paragraph. Not his best. But on the page. Tea went through him. He headed for the toilet. She was in there. Stood waiting.
“What are you doing?” he said, at the door.
“Astral pulled him in. Her breasts against his chest. She kissed his neck.
It grew. “I can’t. Sorry!” Samantha and Lucy flashed across his mind.
“Fuck me. Fuck me. Lucy won’t know. Samantha wants a brother.” How does she know their names? A bolt of pain as Astral ripped his ear from his head. Blood ran warm down his neck. The smell of iron filled his nose. Erich screamed.
It was over.
Astral was gone. He clamped his ears. Both were there. No blood. Thank fuck! Erich should have been disappointed. He couldn’t force it. He splashed cold water on his face and thought about his word count.
He sat and typed. A few minutes of success ensued. Pain jolted through his fingers. He enjoyed the pain, like an ulcer you can’t help but finger. Key strikes wore his fingers down to fleshy stubs. Blood smudged across the keyboard. Astral brought napkins.
“Need a top up?” she said.
“Definitely,” Erich replied.
He checked his word count. Not bad.
Astral left him with a brimming pot. Erich poured and missed his cup. Boiling tea scolded his hand. The pain turned him on. He didn’t stop. His flesh melted like hot candle wax. Colours mixed. He filled his teacup with the pulpy flesh and muscle. He ran the boiling tea up his arm. Flesh and muscle fell away like a well-cooked pork tenderloin.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Huh?”
“Sorry, sir,” the writer said. “Your coat just fell from your chair.”
“Thanks.” Erich checked his word count. Close.
His phone buzzed. A text. Lucy: “Samantha is struggling. Hurry back.” Fine, he thought. He closed the laptop. He saw something on the floor, something that was previously obscured by the laptop. On his hands and knees, he saw an ear. He felt the side of his head. A wet hole. Astral stood before him. She pushed him with a sharp heel.
“Look on my works ye mighty and despair!” Her voice, bestial.
Erich craned his neck, saw the kitchen door licked by green flames. Indescribable forms crawled from the fire. Beasts of the ancient world unleashed to feast on humankind. Erich watched as countless things poured out. People devoured. Heads squeezed. Teeth shattered and eyes burst. He smiled. Willed more. The demons kept coming. He watched them possess and slaughter all.
“Shit! Lucy and Samantha?”
Astral helped Erich up.
“You okay?” she asked.
Silence.
“The word count?” Astral said. “Did you hit it?” He had: 666.
His house was dark and cold. He flicked on a light. A note. Lucy. She had left and took Samantha with her. She said he needed to get his priorities in order. Wished him luck with Astral.
Erich’s novel was published. Samantha would be proud. He enjoyed his riches alone.
Antony Shaw is an aspiring writer who teaches English to college students in Leeds. He enjoys studying languages and is currently learning to speak German and Italian. His goal in life is to read in comfort and peace.