Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-26475800-20180206062846

This is my attempt at the a story for the My Bloody Valentine contest. The song I was given was The King of Nothing. I feel I'm a little rusty at writing, so nay feed back would be helpful.

Mike Nesbith sat behind his computer. God, how he wished he could just write something that would be published. Sure, there was the self-publishing route, but that was only a last resort. Maybe for an anthology, he could easily scrounge up some shorts and make a compilation without much hassle.

After sitting in front of his computer for hours he had nothing to show besides a blank page. Every few minutes he would start to write something, only to delete it shortly after. Anything more than a couple of paragraphs was a Godsend, but after reading the first few sentences he realized that the story wasn’t going to work and cleaned the slate once again. The thinking process and the lights from the monitor had caused a throbbing headache. Why did it have to be so hard to think of a great story?

It was time for a break. He headed over to the window and looked upon Bourbon Street. The street was rather empty, of course there were the normal drunks and bums, but not as many visitors as he would have thought. That would change in a few months, Mardi Gras was coming and with it thousands of drunken college students and partiers will crowd to the street. They would begin flocking to this town like locus to Egypt, swarming weeks in advance.

His eyes drifted up to the sky. The lights from the street obscured most of the stars, but one was visible. Thinking back to when he was a child, when he believed in the magic of the wishing star, he clutched his hands together. Fingers interwoven like deep in prayer, he closed his eyes and whispered.

“Grant me this wish tonight. I wish that I could be a famous author. I wish I could become the next King, or Koontz, or Barker. Please give me what I want. Please, God, hear me and grant me this wish.”

Just like wishing, his belief in God had faltered as he grew older. What did God ever do for him? Not much. He used to pray every day, two or three times a day, but never got the answers he wanted. Never received any clue that God had been listening to him, only more heartache and problems. So what good would it do to believe in something that couldn’t even be proven anyway? Mike realized this hypocrisy in that though, right after wishing on a star, and chuckled to himself.

The next morning he woke with an idea. Perhaps it was the wishing star, perhaps God, but either way he knew something he could try. He was in the Voodoo capital of the States, and could just walk down the street and find someone who would be willing to cast a spell. He didn’t see any harm in it, the worst that could happen would be that he could just be out a few bucks. But if it worked, he would be so much better off. So he set off, stopping at different shops and asking if the residing witchdoctor could help him.

The first few seemed more like a gift shop than an actual place where magic could happen. Shirts with “trust me I’m a witchdoctor” written on them and snow globes with a Voodoo doll inside littered the shelves. That wasn’t what he was looking for, at least he didn’t think so. If someone was really well versed in Voodoo why would they have to sell cheap crap to tourists?

It was after about an hour where he found a place that seem worthy of his money. There was none of the bric-a-brack from the other places. Instead of fleur-de-lis bookends, there were molded candles. In place of cheesy shirts, obscure symbols littered the floors. But most promising of all, behind all the different books, charms and containers of unknown substances, all the way at the back of the store where the register was hidden, was a woman who looked like a Voodoo priestess.

She stood beneath a mural of some tall, dark man in a top hat, bones strung around his neck, and a pipe gripped tightly in his grinning mouth. To the side of the picture were crocodile heads, mouths open as if they were awaiting their next meal. Dead chickens hung upside on a rope that went from wall to wall.

The woman wore dark black cloths with a gossamer thin shawl. The stub of a cigar clutched tightly in her teeth. Her braided hair was tied up in a bun on the top of her head. She saw Mike and gave him a slight smile. That smile caused his skin to crawl. This wasn’t a good idea, he thought, I should just go home. But he refused to leave the shop, not now that he finally found someone that seemed more than just another charlatan.

“Hello Monsieur,” she said. “What can I do for ya?” Her accent was a heavy Cajon one. Had he not grown up in the south he wouldn’t have been able to understand a word she said. Even so, he had a problem making out her words.

“I, um…” Mike second guessed telling her what he wanted. It seemed wrong to be doing this, dirty and dangerous. Was it really worth it to risk anything to achieve his dream? Well, yeah. But couldn’t he just get it done with hard work? He already tried that, and if he couldn’t get it done by now, it seemed like it just wouldn’t happen without some outside help.

“I was wondering if you would be able to help me with something,” he finally spit out.

Her smile grew a little more.

“What ya know about Voodoo, honey?” She asked.

He thought about that for a second. He didn’t really know anything about Voodoo. It was just something that he always thought was just made up to strike fear in people as a means of control, and later to turn a buck. But now, standing in this dim den, he had gotten the feeling that it may be better to do at least a little research before diving into this strange religion. He wanted to lie and tell her he knew enough, but it seemed like she already knew that would be a lie. The way she watched him made it feel that she was somehow in his head, listening to his thoughts. It made him want to get out of there even more. To run home and hide under his blankets like he was nothing more than a child.

Just when he was about to admit his ignorance on the subject, a man came rushing in. His appearance caused Mike to take a step back and get out of his way. Unlike the woman who stood behind the counter, this made was dressed in more socially acceptable cloths, just jeans and a t-shirt. But the way he came in, and the wildness of his eyes was what caused Mike to make distance.

“Momma Jones,” he said, “you have to help me. I need your magic again.”

“Ya have no business here,” she told him.

“But it’ll be different this time. Please Momma, please help.”

“Why should I help ya? Ya don’t pay your debts. Now be gone, can’t ya see I’m with someone?” She motioned towards Mike.

The man’s eyes never left Jones, at the same time her eyes became locked on Mike.

“But I need your guidance.”

At this point Jones started muttering something. Mike could hardly hear a sound coming from her mouth, only see that it was moving. But after a few moments her voice grew louder. At the same time, she slowly moved her head to face the man that burst into the shop.

“Istar sandor castat ne-ah,” she chanted. Each time the words left her mouth they got a little louder.

“Momma please don’t do this,” the man said. “I’ll leave. I won’t come back.”

“Istar…”

“Please don’t.”

“Sandor…”

“I’m begging you.”

His face crumbled. Tears streamed from his eyes, as he started backing away.

“Castat…”

“I’ll find the money, I promise.”

“Ne-ah.”

At this point Jones was yelling, pointing her finger at the man. The man, trembling now, turned and ran from the store. Jones started cackling, and returned her attention to Mike. His eyes were wide, trying to take everything in. It seemed like the fleeing man had the right idea, but Mike was frozen to the spot. He didn’t want to meet the same fate as that man had, even though he had no idea what was going to happen to him, it just seemed horrifying.

After trying to swallow the lump in his throat, Mike spoke.

“Did you just curse him?”

This cause Jones to laugh again. Her eyes didn’t seem nearly as hateful as they had before, in fact, they were jovial now.

“No Monsieur,” she said, “that’s not how this works. If I wanted to do any harm, or good, I have to do a ritual. It involves an altar and an entire ceremony. What I did there was just scare him off, and now anything that happens he will blame me.”

The joy in her eyes seemed to make sense now. She played a joke on that poor guy, it seemed pretty harsh, but at the same time Mike could see the humor in it. He hoped she wouldn’t do the same to him, but at least he could pay his bill.

“So, what is it ya want?” Jones asked.

“I want to become a published author,” Mike said. “I want to be able to pay my bills with nothing more than my stories. Can you help?”

“Oh yeah, I can help with that. It shouldn’t be too hard. What are ya willing to do to get there?”

This question seemed a little strange. Why would he have to do anything? Wasn’t he paying her to do all the work? He supposed that there should be something done on his end though, at least a little more than just writing.

“I’d be willing to do just about anything.” He answered.

That wasn’t completely true. Sure, he would do some things, but he wasn’t going to hurt anyone. Although he wouldn’t mind giving her some sexual favor for her work. She wasn’t a bad looking woman, and even though he normally wasn’t attracted to black women, she had something about her that would allow him to look past her skin color.

She smiled grew slighty, again it seemed like she was in his head. This time the smile wasn’t like the others, it was a little seductive. Maybe he would also get lucky, that would be cool. Getting his wish and also laid, what’s wrong with that?

“Monsieur, ya will have to do what I say. It will be something that has to be done each and every day, if ya don’t, this is pointless. Can you do that?”

“Depends on what it is?”

“All ya have to do is make an altar and burn a candle to Papa Legba to thank him for his services. It can be a small table or shelf with a candle on it. If you do that, he should have no problems helping ya.”

“That’s it?” Mike asked. That seemed easy enough. If that’s all that he had to do for this stuff to work, he had no problem doing that, and if it did work maybe he’d pick up some books on the subject. Maybe even find a faith that he could believe in.

“That’s it. And give me three hundred dollars for my work. If ya pay me, I’ll get that done tonight and ya get yourself an altar setup.”

Mike was ecstatic to hear that was all he had to do, but a little dubious of handing over three hundred bucks to this woman. It was the man who ran from the shop that sold him on giving her the money. That reaction was so strong he felt he had to believe in her. Mike paid, he felt confident that it was money well spent.

“I do have to warn ya though, the Gods can be upset easily, so be cautious.” Jones said as he was leaving.

What the hell did that mean? The Gods can be upset, so what? I can be upset too, and if you just conned me out of my money, you’ll be upset too. Those were Mike’s thoughts as he walked out of the store. But that changed once he walked a little down the street. The air seemed crisp and he felt as though he were walking on a cloud. It was almost as if he was a child again, an amazing sense of magic and wonder had filled him.

That night, Mike setup a small alter and burned a tea candle. Put his hands together and thanks Papa Legba for helping him. After the candle gutted out an overwhelming tiredness fell upon him. He shuffled to bed and was asleep once his head hit the pillow.

His dream that night was rather strange. It was about a ghost that talked to someone through a computer monitor. Through it, he would tell the person things that he should do, and once the person did those things it would start a chain of actions. When he woke up, Mike, knew that he had a great story on his hands. It didn’t take long for him to finish writing, it was a short but that was okay. He had an amazing hook and an even better ending. After that was done he had to think of a name, something that would grab the attention of potential readers. It came rather quickly The Seer of Possibilities.

He felt proud of this story. For the first time in his writing career he felt he had something that was worth reading. Now, the question was should he publish it in a magazine, or should he add it to a novel as a bonus. It would all depend on what else he would start writing.

That night, he thanked Papa Legba again, and again he quickly became tired. Another night filled with a strange dream. This time it was about a man who had been sentenced to labor on the moon, but there was some alien that infested their work stations. Writing the story came just as easily as the last, and so did the title, To the Moon. Stories flowed easily from him now it was no longer the hard, mind numbing process he struggled with before. He was finally able to write something that, at least in his own mind, was good enough to be published.

This routine was repeated night after night, until he had about thirty stories all piled up. More than enough for an anthology, which was what he decided he was going to publish. Compiling so many of the stories together, he sent out a manuscript. To his amazement, the first publishing house he sent it to decided they would publish his book. An advance of ten-thousand dollars would be paid to him, and they also requested a photo to put on the back cover.

This news had Mike do a dance throughout his house, swinging his arms and shaking his ass like a fool. He needed to look go, so he went shopping. What he wanted was something that would make him look intellectual and artistic at the same time. A fedora was always a good choice he thought and a black blazer would complement it nicely. So that’s what he got.

---

Everything was going well for him, his book was published, climbing up the best sellers list. The critics were praising his work, saying that he could dethrone Stephen King and become the new master of horror. The new King, Mike like the sound of that. A book signing tour was being planned out, and money would be coming in once that first quarterly check was sent. In all the fame and success he had been a little neglectful of his thank you prayers to Papa Legba. He had always given thanks, but hadn’t been giving his thanks as sincerely as he once had. It was just a quick thank you, and leave the candle burning until it died out.

Once the book tour got started he neglected his nightly duties all together. His book was on the New York Times best sellers list, he had gotten a paycheck, more than he could have ever imagined, and women were throwing themselves at him. His wildest dreams had become a reality. But all that was soon to crumble.

While he was in Boston his publisher contacted him. They informed him that his book would be pulled from the shelves and he would have to reimburse the check they gave him. It appeared all the stories were plagiarized.

“What?” Mike asked, confused. “I wrote all those stories myself, it took a lot of time and effort, and you’re just going to tell me that I stole someone else’s work? How dare you.”

“They’re all published long before you reached out to us on a website. I didn’t believe it either, but I looked into myself. Each and every story had been published years before you ever contacted us. If you can find anyway to disprove this that would be great, because the original authors are suing us. We will be getting that money back one way or another, so expect to hear from our lawyers.”

With that the contact from the publishing house hung up. Mike couldn’t believe what was happening. His check was spent on the tour, and booze. Maybe he didn’t need to spend every day in the nicest hotel the town had to offer, but he felt like a rock star, and damn it, he deserved to be treated like one. He would have to talk to Momma Jones. She would know what to do.

Wanting to see if the tour still had any bookings he called the bookstores and libraries that remained. All of them had heard of what he was being accused and decided that they didn’t want him at their stores. With that being the case, he got onto the next plane and flew back to New Orleans. Before he went to Jones’ shop, he decided that he needed to get some sleep, it had been a month of partying and it caused his body some hardship. His sleep was only visited by a black man with a corncob pipe clenched between his teeth, laughing like a madman. He knew he saw that man somewhere before, and it wasn’t till her noticed the bone necklace and top hat that he remembered the mural in Jones’ store.

He woke up and didn’t feel any better. His body was still sore, his mind drained. He felt even worse somehow, maybe it was because he was about to confront a woman he was scared of. But that didn’t matter, he needed to get to the bottom of this, and she would be held responsible.

In his fury, he stormed out of the house, straight to Momma Jones’. There was a man at the back counter, he looked a little fearful of the situation. At that point he wasn’t sure if the man was afraid of him or Jones, nor did he care. His attention was solely on Jones.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” Mike screamed at her.

“Monsieur, what do ya mean?” Jones said, a sly smirk on her face.

“You know damn well what I mean. I had everything I wanted, and now it’s gone. So why did you do it?”

“I ain’t done nothing to ya but what ya asked. It sounds to me like ya didn’t keep up your part of the deal. Does that sound about right?”

She had a sly grin. Mike wanted to smack it off her face. How could he ever have thought she was attractive?

“I paid you, and paid my respects for long enough. Fuck you, I held my part of the deal. You’re just another fraud, you and your Gods.”

“Oh, Monsieur, I’d be careful about what ya say about the Gods. I can only ask for their help, but they are more than capable of acting of their own will.”

“Fuck your Gods. They aren’t worth shit. If they are so powerful, why couldn’t they just give me something as simple as a few published novels? Huh? That’s because this is all bullshit. So fuck your bullshit Gods and give me my fucking money back.”

Jones looked at him from a moment, her face no longer smiling. A hatred had taken over, something akin to the face she wore when the man who came into the shop while he asked for her. Mike felt he may had gone too far.

“You’re just made a grave mistake, Monsieur,” Jones said, her voice soft and calm. “Ya best be making amends, or I can promise ya that you’re gonna have some real problems.”

“I’m not fucking scared of you,” Mike yelled as he turned and headed for the door. On his way out, he pushed some glass vials filled with power and liquids from the shelves.

Still mad, Mike, went to the closet bar to drown his anguish. He stayed until the bartender cut him off and sent him on his way. A wondering drunk, navigating the streets post Mardi Gris wasn’t too uncommon, but for Mike it was. He hardly ever drank, only when he was with friends. He tried to get a sense of what was happening, but everything seemed so futile. He would have to get some sleep; maybe that would grant him some clarity.

When he finally found his house, he didn’t waste any time getting into bed. Brushing his teeth was out of the question, so was a shower. Instead he just laid on his bed without undressing, he didn’t even take his shoes off, and quickly drifted off to sleep. His dreams were filled with different people. The same black man, a woman with in a white dress and white vale, a man with an unbuttoned blazer and a snake, and many others. None of them said a word, only watched him with hate in their eyes. The only one that made any noise was the man with a pipe, and he was just laughing.

Mike was startled awake by his phone ringing. It was his lawyer and the news he was calling about wasn’t good. All the authors were compiling a lawsuit against him, as was the publishing house. His lawyer asked if he had stolen their work, and once more Mike said he didn’t. The lawyer told him about the evidence that was collected and that made Mike’s heart skip a beat. It was all so overwhelming. Then, the worst part, the amount the authors was suing him for totaled over a million dollars. He didn’t even make that much with the books he sold. He would have to settle. On top of that the publishing house was going after five-hundred thousand. Again that was more than he had ever made. Even if he settled out of court he wouldn’t be able to pay that, his lawyer, and survive. He was ruined finically.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself after getting off the phone. It was at that moment an idea came, he would have to publish something maybe that would bring him some extra cash. That was the only thing he could think of, and he already had the perfect story. He started writing the events that happened to him over the past few months. Everything from the witchdoctor and the dreams to his success and failure. Surely someone would buy that.

It took him about a month, but once it was finished he felt it was his best work. It was quickly sent to a new publishing house, one he never tried before. The rejection letter had come back so quickly it was painful. It didn’t even thank him for his interest, but instead condemned him for his plagiarism, informing him that no one would ever publish him again.

Defeated, broke and in bodily pain, Mike headed back to Momma Jones’ shop one last time. She saw him come in, and smiled wide.

“Monsieur, ya shouldn’t be here,” she said, looking him up and down. “It appears you’ve come about some bad luck.”

“Please help me,” Mike whimpered. “I need your help. Please, God, I need your help.”

Jones laughed at him.

“Please, Momma Jones, I need you to help me.”

“I ain’t gonna help you. You don’t pay your debts.”

“You have to help, I need you.”

Jones looked at him and started muttering something under her breath. At first he couldn’t hear was she was saying, not over his own sobs, but then it became clear.

“Istar…”

Mike ran from the store as soon as he heard that word. The memory of how terrified the other man looked rushed into his mind. She told him that wasn’t how it worked, but he still didn’t know how it worked and didn’t want anything to do with Voodoo any more.

He wanted to hide, locking himself in his house, curled under a blanket. But that would bring sleep, and every time he slept those people would visit him, getting closer. He would have to stay awake, find a way to keep going, to make enough money to pay his debts.

Maybe ask for forgiveness from Papa Legba. That was it. How hadn’t he thought of that before? That’s all he would have to do, and once Legba forgave him, he would be on his feet again.

He found a candle, lit it, and prayed like he never prayed before. On his knees, hands clutching each other so tightly it hurt. Begging for forgiveness and thanking him for all he had done before. The air grew cooler, still he prayed. His eyes began to burn, but he continued in his penitence. His eyelids grew so heavy that he couldn’t keep them open any longer, and he fell asleep on the floor in front of the altar.

In his dream the people now surrounded him, the man with the pipe right in front of his face.

“You want to show us you’re sorry?” The man asked.

Mike nodded as he whimpered.

“Here you go, you know what you have to do.”

The man handed him a straight edge razor. Mike took it gratefully, and with a quick motion he dragged the blade across his throat, releasing a fountain of blood onto the people that surrounded him

Just before he died in his dream, Mike, woke up. The house was cold, colder than it should be with such a thick atmosphere. It could be because of the cold sweat that cover his entire body, but Mike thought it was because of something else. Almost as if there was something in the house with him. Finally he willed himself to sit up. His breath caught when he noticed what was sitting on the altar. A straight edge, the same one from his dream.

Mike never owned a straight edge, so he knew that it was a present from the laughing man. The realization of what he had to do was clear, the man showed him in the dream. If that was the only way he would be forgiven, well, that’s what he would have to do.

With a trembling hand he lifted the razor, it was heavier than he thought it would be. Slowly he opened the blade, and pressed the cold steel against his neck, just under his left ear. If he was going to do this, he was going to make sure that he didn’t botch it. After taking a deep breath he muttered, “God, please forgive me.” Then dragged the blade across his throat.

The blood spurted far, and his vision began to blur. But he could make out all the people from his dreams swarming towards him. The laughing man leading the pact, laughing harder than ever before.

“Momma Jones never told you,” he said. “But I’m a trickster, and you just made a big mistake.”

The last thing he saw before his soul was snatched from his body, was all the Gods he cursed grinning with joy at the prospect of the tortures they were going to inflict upon him. Mike died as Papa Legba laughed his laugh. 