Davy Downer
WD February Flash Fiction Challenge — Day 11
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David strode into the room, a piece of paper held over his head.
“I got published! I sold a story! Woohoo!” he practically crowed.
“Congratulations, David!”
“Way to go!”
“Good job!”
The responses came from around the room, friends and trangers offering their congratulations.
David settled into a booth where three others sat, a woman and two men.
“Harold, buy me a beer! I’m a published author!”
“Shouldn’t you be buying me a beer, considering all that you owe me?” Harold retorted.
“Sounds right to me,” Jim chimed in. “You being a famous author and all!”
“Well, it’s not like they sent me a check. Not yet, anyway. But we need to celebrate and I haven’t a dime to my name.”
“I’ll buy you a beer,” Susan said, waving her hand at the server. “A beer for my friend. Whatever you have on tap!”
“A pilsner!” David corrected. “Thanks, you’re a true friend.”
“So what did you publish and where?” she asked.
“Remember that zombie story I wrote for Halloween last year? I thought I’d send it out again, and bam! a magazine picked it up.”
“Which magazine?” Harold asked.
Laying it on the table and smoothing it with his hand, David scrutinized the paper he’d been waving around.
“Uh, Tales from the Darkness. It’s a digital Zine.”
“Never heard of it,” Jim said. “What’s it pay?”
David returned to the paper, turning it over, then back again. “Hmm, it doesn’t say. It says, “Dear Mr. David Proctor, this is to inform you that we have selected your piece, “On a Dare — A Zombie Story” for possible publication in our Fall edition. If your piece goes to press, you will receive our standard remuneration. Thank you for your creative contribution to Tales from the Darkness.”
His friends remained silent after David finished reading, each one looking at their hands, or at the ceiling or some spot over David’s shoulder, anywhere but at David.
He sat their a moment, working through the meaning.
“So, they MIGHT publish it. Or they might not. Why don’t they just say? And what do they pay? What’s standard?” Crestfallen, David reached for the beer the server had set in front of him and took a large gulp.
“It’s not so bad, David! I mean, they liked it enough to consider it, right? They’ll probably publish it. I bet they do!” That was Susan, always the cheerleader.
Jim added, “And what does it matter what they pay? They pay something and something is better than nothing. You know I’m right!”
Harold sighed. “Davy, boy. It’s two steps forward, and three steps back. What do you expect? It’s only Tuesday!”
“Why do I even try? I write. I send off my stories, and all I get are rejections. I should give up!”
Susan patted his arm, “No, you shouldn’t! You’ve just got to hang in there! Your day will come! The more you write, the better you’ll get, and eventually, you’ll connect with just the right publisher who will love every word you’ve written. It’s going to happen. Just don’t quit.”
Another long draw on the glass and he set it down empty, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“It’s no use. I need to go find a job, or die…” his voice fell to a whisper, his last words beyond hearing as he got up glumly and headed for the door.
“What did he say?” Jim asked. “Or die…what came after that?”
“I couldn’t hear him,” Harold said. “He mumbles when he gets to drinking.”
“You don’t think he’s going to do something stupid, do you?” Susan asked.
“What, like keep trying to get published? Probably!” Harold said.
‘No, I mean, like do himself harm.”
“I don’t think so,” Jim replied “but maybe we should go with him?”
Susan got up and Jim followed, pausing to ask Harold, “Are you coming?”
“Not me, I’m going to order another drink and wait for Davy Downer to calm down and get some perspective. You all do what you want to do.”
“You’re such an ass, Harold.” Susan said. “Let’s go.”
She pulled on Jim’s elbow and they exited after David.
Harold waved at the server. “Another one, please.”
This is my Day Eleven entry to the Writer’s Digest February Flash Fiction Challenge. The prompt is to “write about someone who ruins their own mood.”
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