A fateful interview could be the start of a new life… or the end of one.
Last summer, my multi-talented friend Dalya (check out their new project here!) suggested that I sign up for Forest & Fawn‘s Faerie-themed writing challenge with them. I’ve always had trouble with fiction because whenever I tried, the result was never something I’d have liked if someone else wrote it. I re-read my own nonfiction work all the time to see how I’ve evolved, or if I still believe what I used to.
But I was in a bit of a creative slouch, and Dalya was very convincing, so I gave it a shot. If I didn’t win, they’d never publish it and nobody would ever see it. I didn’t win, but I was shocked at how much I enjoyed the process, and how connected I felt to the final result.
The maximum length was 2,000 words, and the story had to include:
- The first and last sentence must be “Nothing is/was as it seems/seemed.”
- A character notorious for breaking things.
- A message in a bottle.
- The story must be within the sub-genre of FAERIE: the story must center around Fae Folk.
When I wrote the story – no doubt a result of the Dalya connection, who always challenges people to hold space for the grey in other people – I had in mind someone specific. This person was once what you might call “fine.” Reasonably intelligent, nothing loathsome about him, but nothing remarkable either. Someone who was never externally or internally challenged, just living by default, who one day began spouting some horrendous stuff. Nothing about the narrator in this story describes him directly, not his personality or his life story, but I was imagining the same sort of “by default” guy who was caught in a pattern that exploited his undeveloped ability to think critically. He’s smart enough to figure out what’s wrong but chooses passivity. This story is set at the very last moment when the option to channel his alienation into self-development, insight, or personal growth was still available.
(I’ve since been laid off, so re-reading it now, there’s also the question of how much of myself will I give away in pursuit of stability.)
Looks like I can’t turn off critic mode, I’ve just analyzed the story before you’ve even read it. Here it is!
“Nothing is as it seems.”
I can’t be reading that right. In the footer of the printout, where you might expect to see “For Internal Use Only” or “Contract.docx,” is a phrase that shouldn’t be anywhere near a binding document. I might have missed it if it weren’t directly above where I’m supposed to sign my name.
“Sorry, before I sign, can I ask what this means?”
My host takes the contract and looks it over. “Everything appears in order. It’s a standard employment contract and liability waiver. What should I be looking for?”
No wonder you can’t see it, I think. Not with those dark sunglasses. They wrap around the side of his face, letting no outside light reach his eyes from any angle.
Prescription, most likely. All sorts of things can cause sensitivity to light, and it wouldn’t be right to pry with someone you just met, let alone your possible future boss. My ex had something similar, they called it “photophobia” but never determined the cause. She hated when people asked why our lights were always so dim.
But why, if that’s his condition, would he not simply close the blinds? A big, important office like this probably has fancy blinds that roll down all in one piece.
Snap out of it, I think. A simple question with a straightforward answer and I’m already three steps ahead.
“In the footer. I think you’ll see what I mean.”
A hint of a grin appears on his face. “Ah yes. Such an easy place to miss. But I’m afraid I don’t see anything other than our foundation’s logo. Can you tell me what you see?”
He hands me back the contract and the text isn’t quite gone, but it’s no longer legible. Partially smeared and transparent, like the printer was running out of ink. But it was perfectly clear a moment ago…
It wouldn’t be right to insist that my host is wrong about his own forms, but apparently my expression betrays my confusion, so my host offers to draft up a new copy. “It’ll take a few minutes,” he says, his grin widening to a faint smile. “I’ve noticed your eyes darting across my collection. Please, browse all you like. And help yourself to the remains of the candy dish.”
The receptionist had given me one of those old-fashioned hard candies outside. My ex called them “grandpa suckers,” which I hated. Already nervous and dry-mouthed, I made quick work of the first one, and even though I didn’t care for it, I took two more before meeting my host. They were an odd flavor, closer to pine sap than anything sweet, like that all-natural toothpaste my ex had. I kept using it and never said anything, it wouldn’t have been right to complain when she did the shopping.
SNAP. OUT. OF. IT. She’s the whole reason I’m here, but she doesn’t need to dominate my every thought. This job is a crucial part of moving on. It wasn’t a great relationship but it’s all I had in this new city. Ending things with her meant living on my own, which meant a new job with a better salary. Thank Whomever that LinkedIn message came when it did, it was almost too good to be true. Easy train ride, great location, best pay and benefits I felt I could ever expect with my mixed work history and iffy credit.
Come to think of it, I can’t remember my host’s name. I pull out my phone and check LinkedIn, but I don’t see that message. I must have deleted it, but all of my other messages are still there. Why would I only have deleted that one, and if I did, how did I know the directions this morning?
I don’t ask his name. It wouldn’t be right this far into the conversation, and I’m here to impress. I take a few more of the candies I don’t like and explore the office.
I pause at the window to take in the view. God, I’d love to work here. Right downtown but outside is an ocean of green. This is not your typical urban park, this is wild, untamed woods, an enormous circle at the heart of the city. The more I stare, the farther it seems to expand. The idea of lunch breaks in the expanse of trees is freeing, even hypnotizing. With the taste of the pine candy, it feels like I’m already there. Beats the hell out of mandatory pizza day at my last gig.
The office is inviting, the offer is enticing, but for the life of me I can’t remember what this foundation is called. “We’re innovators,” he said in his message. “Interrupters. We break molds and replace them with dreams come true.” I could have asked what exactly they broke, but if they offered a salary like that out the gate, they must be doing something right.
I don’t ask my host the foundation’s name. The time to ask would have been before I agreed to the interview. To do so now, it wouldn’t be right.
I really don’t care for these candies but I can’t get enough of them. Am I that hungry? My ex used to cook the most delicious food. We worked opposite shifts, me during the day and her at night, so we could rarely enjoy it together. I couldn’t name a single dish she made, but with the all-natural ingredients she got from who-knows-where, it sure beat pasta and microwave dinners again. Come to think of it, eating her food, alone, without her, might be the most content I felt in the whole relationship.
Well, that was the bleakest detour yet. Good job, dummy. You were invited to this interview, why don’t you do what the man asked and explore the room?
I wander over to a shelf with two clear bottles: one with an old-fashioned ship, the other with a rolled-up piece of paper, the kind you’d see in a pirate movie. The paper looks at least a hundred years old, while the ship is so lifelike, the figurines so accurate, that I feel like I’m looking at a full-size recreation from far away, not a model up close. I notice the name, København. Is that where my host’s slight accent is from, whatever country that ship is from?
I don’t know much about this stuff, but one detail puzzles me: why is the paper’s bottle corked, but the ship’s isn’t?
My host must have noticed me lingering by the bottles. “Our first great interruption.” I look back at him and his smile has grown. I want to ask more but I don’t want to seem ignorant of the foundation’s history. Maybe they’re in navigation or shipping. I want this job so I stay quiet.
The sun’s reflection on the ship bottle suddenly blinds me, so I back away and turn my head. I notice the chandelier. Already striking for its size, I only just now notice the odd shape of the bulbs: a large, dome head connected by a slim tube. What is that, an onion? I continue the shape associations but stop when I remember how my ex would make the most inappropriate jokes in public. She’d also prank unsuspecting people on the street and film it. It was so embarrassing. She was never that way at home, only among strangers. Even if it was funny, I never let myself laugh.
The light from the bottle keeps finding me wherever I stand in the room. When I lift up my hand to block it out, my host presents me the revised contract. “Thank you for your patience,” he says. “I believe you’ll notice the anomaly has been remedied.”
I try to read the contract but I can’t seem to escape the light, so I trust my host and only look for that odd sentence. It’s not there anymore. I take my host’s pen and I begin to sign. My ex always ragged me about my signature, that it looked nothing like the letters that spell my name. Who cares about signatures anyway, I think.
As I put the pen down, I notice something about the reflection. It’s now noon, the sun should be directly overhead, not shining through the window. And if it is reflecting light from outside, why doesn’t it feel random? There’s a pattern to the flashes, with short and long pauses in between. Like, a code or something? “Morse,” is that the word? I look over and – wait – those figurines on the ship are moving. They’re sending me a signal from the bottle that I can’t interpret.
The chandelier glows red and I notice the real shape of the lights: toadstools.
I turn away and shut my eyes. When I regain my vision, I look back at the contract. There’s my signature and the date, but I can’t read the “Name” field. That’s not my handwriting, and it doesn’t even look like real letters, just glowing, writhing shapes.
“What is this?” I ask, pointing to the letters.
“Why, your name, of course.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Oh, then what is?”
“What? It’s -” No words come out. Just say your name. Say any name. Nothing.
His smile widens. No, it…expands.
“Your old name is forfeit. Along with the other terms of the contract, you have signed away all rights to your earthly moniker.”
The rest of the letters on the contract keep moving. I can’t even read what I’ve just signed. “But if this is my name, why can’t I read it?”
“Oh, but you will. You’ll learn to accept it. Just like everything else you’ve accepted and never challenged.” My host walks toward me with a gait that, though steady, feels increasingly aggressive.
I attempt to hold my ground. “Back off. We only just met. You don’t know me or what I’m capable of.”
“On the contrary. I know everything you are – but more importantly, are not – capable of.” He pulls out a notebook from his coat pocket. “‘A skeptic’s brain with a coward’s heart.’ So says one of our best agents, who makes a most convincing member of your kind.”
A skeptic’s brain with a coward’s heart. That’s the reason my ex gave when we split up.
“Since the days of the first telegraph, our methods have grown less effective on humans. The days of superstitious sailors and poor souls lost in the woods are unfortunately over. We need a new kind of fool to capture, keep, and train: you. You who noticed everything wrong with this interview – the meaningless invitation, the off-putting refreshments, the peculiarities of the contract, and even the message from these young men, formerly my proudest trophies.”
He corks the bottle containing the ship, as the tiny men gasp and flail. The light code flashes slower, slower, until it fully stops.
“You observed everything but did nothing. You did not even ask the simplest of questions. You are now mine, and your charge will be to bring me more mortals like you.”
The mushroom chandelier’s light shines a soft yet all-encompassing red, as the circular carpet erupts into cool, mossy undergrowth. Once the tiny men are no longer moving, he lifts both bottles by the neck, smashing them together. The freshly grown forest floor beneath us opens to swallow the sailors, their ship, the parchment, and all of the broken glass, but not me and my host.
“Like me?” I barely choke out. “What about me will I search for in others?”
In the more hospitable environs, my host removes his sunglasses. His eyes are large, dark, and alarmingly close to the sides of his face. His smile now stretched inhumanly from ear to ear. When he speaks, his jaw moves like it’s being sliced then refastened to his skull with each syllable. He replies:
“Someone who is too cowardly to flee. Someone who, when told they are in danger, finds more comfort in acquiescence. Someone who finds no disquiet in the words ‘Nothing is as it seems.’”
If you’re interested in Forest & Fawn’s writing challenge, follow this link and go to “Writing Challenges” at the top of the page. I had a great time, you might too!
Kristofer Jenson's Blog 