The Pen Thief and the Orbit of Uncertainty

By Tasha Madison

How do you pen your own destiny when you're destined to control a magical pen?

 

Arnie Schmidt is an unremarkable seventeen-year-old nerd who works at his uncle's accounting firm. Nothing exciting happens to him. Ever. The most exhilarating experience he had was sharing an elevator with his office cr

• Language: English
• Publisher: Author Academy Elite
• Release date: Oct 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781647468491

Tasha Madison

Tasha Madison shares an ancient paternal lineage with Ramesses III. She wrote this novel to honor her distant ancestor and to explore how various historical actors might have bolstered his dramatic demise. Tasha is a graduate of the Edward R. Murrow School of Communication at Washington State University and Seattle University's School of Law. She is the author of Fabric of a Generation, a YA historical fantasy that follows the family saga of a teen whose world is turned upside down after finding a mystical object in the attic. When she's not writing, you can catch her in the middle of an epicurean battle with family members (or scrapbooking). To learn more about Tasha's latest adventures, visit her website at: tashamadison.com.

Book preview

chapter 1

Princess Aurora Borealis

Arnie imagined two of the parish priests smashing together at warp speed like mindless matter dusting the galaxy with endless chatter. He envisioned their collision creating a tiny black hole that would open a bubble of interdimensional space large enough for him to experience amusement for a fraction of a second longer than Father Humphrey’s humdrum speech on life after high school.

Arnie watched mournfully. The length, width, and depth of his reality succumbed to the mind-bending precision of each tick-tock of the Sacred Heart Cathedral’s gilded clock.

Arnie calculated the sum of abandoned hymnals and deserted prayer books. He computed the ratio of candles to altar furniture. He tallied the pews and the number of teens bored in them.

Sixty. Tick. Tick. The number of seconds in a minute.

Thirty-six hundred. Tick. Tick. The number of seconds in an hour.

Eighty-six thousand and four hundred. Tick. Tick. The number of seconds in a day.

Seconds. Minutes. Hours. The wasted moments revolved around Arnie like a cluster of stars as the clock hands skirted their way around the decorative sphere.

When Arnie ran out of things to count, he began to pen his epitaph in his head. It seemed fitting, given all the time ambling away from his grasp. He felt certain the youth retreat his parents sentenced him to would still be ticking away when he had perfected his inscription.

Here lie the mortal remains of Arnie Schmidt.

Child of two loving parents. Brother to none.

Proud Math Camp attendee. Destined to remain a monument of unrequited love.

Arnie’s parents pleaded with his Uncle Gregory to mentor their son. They struggled to understand their number-cruncher child who boasted the brains to get into MIT but lacked the ambition to try. However, his parents’ promise of an internship at his uncle’s successful accounting firm turned into a meager position in the company mail room. Arnie assumed he would start as a junior clerk. He remembered the awkward conversation well.

What’s this, Uncle?

The mail room, of course.

Arnie nodded as he pushed up his glasses. Um … Yes … I see that. But, why … uh … are you … well … showing it to me?

Uncle Gregory smiled. I make all my accountants start here.

Arnie squirmed under his gaze. He totaled the number of shelves and determined the likely quantity of envelopes stuffed into them. His eyes widened at the clutter of stamps, scales, and labels scattered about the room. He estimated the reduction of output per hour based on various primary and secondary inputs being wasted, mismanaged, or used inefficiently. Uncle Gregory visualized the mathematics of Arnie’s future mail room adjustments whirring among his nephew’s gray matter. He smiled knowingly.

Arnie shrugged. There was certainly plenty to keep him busy, and he didn’t mind busy work when it served a practical purpose.

Uncle Gregory raised an eyebrow. Is that a problem?

No, Uncle. Not at all. It will be nice to be useful.

Processing and distributing mail to employees seemed easy enough. How hard could this be? Arnie wondered.

Good! Uncle Gregory said, clapping Arnie on the back.

Arnie’s slender form jerked forward. His uncle’s extolment almost knocked his glasses off his face.

You’ll be a star accountant in no time! Uncle Gregory cheered.

Arnie stifled a laugh. He never intended a career as a mail carrier, but he promised to earn his uncle’s favor and become his best employee. He wanted to make his uncle proud and prove his parents wrong about his ostensible deficit in the ambition department. Arnie possessed plenty of drive, but he had experienced more disappointments than most—from school … from his parents … from life …

The cerebral seventeen-year-old furrowed his brow. His mind spun back to his present concern—his future death. He moved around the words of his inscription in his head until they reflected his current ennui.

Arnie! Arnieee!

Huh?

Father Humphrey shook his head. Do listen up, my boy!

Arnie slid to an upward attention. Sir? Yes, sir. I’m listening.

What did I just say?

Arnie didn’t have a clue. He surveyed a room full of pimple-faced nobodies and defiant college-hopefuls who sat at the ready for a good laugh. He tried to think of something clever, but the discomfort of his present predicament distressed him as much now as it did in high school.

Father Humphrey sighed. You were composing your epitaph again, weren’t you?

Weirdo! one of the teens whispered, loud enough for Arnie to hear.

What a loser! another muttered.

Father Humphrey shushed them into silence with one stern look. All right, then. Let’s hear it.

Arnie took a deep breath. Here lie the mortal remains of Arnie Schmidt. Sorter of mail. Lover of numbers. Killed by … boredom.

The room howled with laughter, but Father Humphrey didn’t find it funny. Arnie held his breath as the parish priest moved closer to where Arnie sat. His body dropped backward when the priest neared. Arnie waited for him to wallop him over the head with a rod the size of the Milky Way.

Father Humphrey’s posture stiffened. There’s nothing humorous about death.

Well, if death is a woman, she’ll never come for me!

A third of the room chuckled. The next third rolled their eyes. The final third asked for an explanation. Father Humphrey didn’t seem to belong to any of the thirds. He closed his eyelids and pursed his lips.

Arnie sat sepulchrally. The priest melodically tapped his fingers on top of the pew as if listening to an aria from one of Puccini’s librettos. He abruptly reopened his eyes, and Arnie rattled back to life.

Death is not the end, Arnie. It is only the beginning.

Arnie’s eyes trailed back to the church clock. The arrow of time soared past him. He started not to say anything, but his curiosity seduced him into asking, The beginning of what?

The beginning of eternity!

Uh … Okay. Father Humphrey narrowed his view until Arnie admitted, I don’t understand.

The kingdom of heaven resembles a net cast into the sea. It catches fish of every kind, but, when full, the net is taken ashore. The good fish are tossed into baskets.

And, the bad fish?

The bad fish are thrown out.

Arnie regretted asking. He didn’t like being equated to a fish. Childhood memories from his catechism class still traumatized him. He remembered Deacon Wallace enthusiastically telling stories of how a whale swallowed Jonah whole. Such is the cost of disobedience! Arnie recalled the deacon ruminating. Perhaps, too eagerly.

So, it will be at the end of the age. The angels will come and separate the righteous from the evil ones and throw those who are evil into the Furnace of Fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth!

Arnie gagged. The End of Days reminded him of one of his beat-downs in school.

Death is an appointment none of us can escape. It would serve you well to remember that, Father Humphrey said, the warm tenor of his voice laced with the dramatic timbre of an operatic baritone.

Yes, sir, Arnie agreed with a sanguine complexion.

Now, if you’re done planning your demise, may I continue?

I wasn’t planning my demise. I only—

Father Humphrey’s jawline hardened. Arnie nodded overenthusiastically. He bemoaned his paltry attempt at comedic relief. Father Humphrey didn’t deserve his ire. His parents did! He resented them sending him away like a spoiled adolescent who had stolen his father’s car. Arnie’s only crime? Not knowing what to do with the rest of his life … a problem shared by most teens, he hypothesized after using a basic statistical formula. Surely, he wasn’t the lone high school graduate present with potential and no idea how to use it.

High school created such turmoil in his life. He expended most of his energies trying to survive Phys Ed. While the rest of his classmates applied for scholarships and piled on as many extracurriculars as their college applications could contain—without spontaneously combusting—Arnie did his best to minimize inevitable teasing for his uncoordinated attempts on the basketball court, soccer field, and baseball pitch. He spent the remainder of his time dodging Erik, a life-long bully who constantly bragged about how football was the best sport that ever existed, despite the school’s six-year streak of not ranking high enough in the regional league to warrant such a fuss. When graduation came and went with the alacrity of the speed of light, it seemed a little too late to begin planning for his future.

So, his lack of foresight encouraged Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt to use their scant savings for a week-long residential program at the local parish. They hoped the educational experience would inspire their only child to pursue a career in business, medicine, or theology. Arnie didn’t appreciate the provocation to blaze a path he hadn’t chosen for himself. Working for his uncle established a fail-safe his parents concocted to guarantee a certain measure of achievement.

For all their scheming to engineer Arnie’s success, Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt couldn’t have anticipated the headache it would cause their son. Father Humphrey ensured a healthy balance of prayer, work, and wholesome conversation. Some summer program! Arnie thought. No swimming. No dancing. Not even useless visits to local landmarks!

Maybe it was a blessing in disguise, Arnie concluded when Father Humphrey started to wrap up his speech. The only thing worse than high school would be the non-stop embarrassment he was sure to endure if he attempted any serious physical activity! At least, at the Sacred Heart, Arnie could bide his time until his first professional job started next week at his uncle’s firm.

He didn’t realize a mail room gig could excite him so much. Although, it’s hard not to get enthused when your limited options include a glorified internship versus having your parents volunteer your time to every Jim and Jane in the parish as a means of building character until your proverbial ship sails into view. Arnie happily sought to escape that fate. After all, there’s only so much manual labor a nerd can tolerate before it becomes a hopeless pursuit!

Thankfully, Arnie weathered the worst of the program without Father Humphrey resorting to singing lame songs around a bonfire like a good little Boy Scout. When his parents picked him up, he ardently longed to return to his normal, humdrum existence. He had missed his parent’s usual routine of endless TV and smartphone-browsing. He promised himself that his thirst for adventure would end with him standing in line outside the Arcade Shop for the newest collection of geek culture video games.

Arnie stopped competing for his parent’s affection sometime in the sixth grade when he watched his dad’s eyes glaze over after asking him for a book on Nikolai Lobachevsky so he could better understand hyperbolic geometry. His father gawked at him like an insect paralyzed by a venomous spider.

When Mr. Schmidt’s speech returned, he could only utter the words, "You want a thingamajig by whom about what?"

Arnie soon wised up and decided to ask for a computer instead. It would save him the time of having to explain his search for a delightful read from the math teacher he wished he had.

How was the summer program, dear? Mrs. Schmidt asked, her fingers speeding through her phone’s digital QWERTY keypad.

Well, I didn’t get mauled by a bear. So, there’s that.

Hmm? Oh, that’s nice, dear, she said, finishing her text to a friend.

Arnie stared out the window until they arrived home and he could make an unobserved escape to his bedroom. Tomorrow starts the rest of your life! He distracted himself by getting caught up on the nine lonely emails languishing on the dashboard of his email provider. Then, he played video games until he passed out from exhaustion.

Arnie roused to the earsplitting soprano of his mother, reminding him to prepare for his big day. After he showered and got dressed, she tossed breakfast at him and pleaded with him to try his best.

"This is an enormous opportunity for you, Arnie. Don’t disgrace us in front of your uncle. The last thing we need is that good-for-nothing looking down his nose at us on Sunday morning. We may not put as much as he does in the collection plate at Mass, but we go to the same parish. No ifs, ands, or buts about that …"

Mom, I don’t think the Sunday offertory is meant as a means of comparison.

Of course, it is, my dear. Of course. But, no matter. We’ll show him whose son is best.

Arnie sighed. Uncle Gregory doesn’t have any sons … He doesn’t have any children at all!

Exactly! That’s precisely what I mean.

Arnie’s gaze flicked upward toward the ceiling. He grimaced at the burnt toast his mother hurled at him and scraped off the worst bits with a fingernail. He eyed a nearby glass of milk … no ice! He hated milk unless it was cold. His mother knew that!

Eat up! I want you nice and strong for your first day at work.

Mom, I’m going to be sorting mail, not running a marathon.

All the same. No one will ever be able to say that I didn’t … well, you know … or claim that I wasn’t the best …

Of course, not, Mom. Of course, not. Arnie tugged at his clothes. He wished he could afford something nicer to wear, especially for his first day at work.

Stop fidgeting, dear! Mrs. Schmidt ordered as she harshly scrubbed the kitchen counter. Your uncle certainly could have been kinder. There’s no question about that. I mean, who does he think he is? Royalty? she snorted.

Mother, Uncle Gregory has shown us great kindness by giving me a job. I am very appreciative.

Well, rightly so. We raised you properly, we did!

And, no one ever said otherwise, Arnie said, slumping his head into his left hand as he forced himself to slosh down the tepid milk with his right. Memories of freshmen year and the constant torment over his less-than-stellar, mother-packed lunches came flooding back. Arnie shook off the distressing remembrance.

Mrs. Schmidt scrubbed until the invisible counter stain no longer remained. Hmmmpt! she said, throwing the sponge in the sink and washing her hands like a surgeon. You all set? she asked, spinning around to dry her hands.

I think so. But, what about lun—

Mrs. Schmidt pointed to the kitchen island. I packed your lunch. And, I convinced your father to leave you a little something extra, this being your first day and all. Let me get my purse, and then off we’ll go.

Arnie nodded. He rinsed off his dirty plate and glass, and placed them into the dishwasher. He grabbed the modest brown sack on the counter and looked inside. A sloppily-made peanut butter and jelly sandwich lazed next to a Red Delicious apple. Not much but, at least, he could stomach the menu.

After passing inspection, he traveled the short distance to collect the money his dad left for him and nearly collapsed in disbelief. A worn ten-dollar bill stared back at him. It was more than he thought his father would willingly part with on a Monday morning. He hurriedly stuffed the weathered bill into his empty wallet. He half expected moths to fly out when he opened it. To his amusement, none did.

When his mother returned, her galactic exasperation dissipated into mild annoyance as she drove Arnie to work. Your father will pick you up on his way home.

Yes, I haven’t forgotten.

Well, I’m just reminding you, is all. Make sure you’re out here on time. You know how much your father hates to wait.

Yes, of course.

All right, son. Take care. Do us proud!

I will mom, Arnie said as his mother’s hands impulsively finger-tapped the steering wheel. I promise.

Arnie bolted from the vehicle with the blazing speed of a comet, just in time to watch his mother dart away in the opposite direction. He reluctantly entered the sleek, modern building through a set of imposing revolving doors. A security guard rapidly eyed Arnie as he disembarked into the atrium and shot him a look of warning.

You lost? the guard asked. This isn’t a laser tag facility, you know.

Arnie shook his brown lunch bag at the stout guard. He didn’t seem impressed.

It’s not a grocery store, neither!

I guess not, Arnie said, briefly inspecting the cavernous ceiling. He could never confuse the glittering stairwell with a display shelf for canned goods. It looked like something that belonged on the auction block at Sotheby’s.

The guard teetered from behind the counter as Arnie’s admiration reached the beautiful tiles on the ground floor. State your business. Make it plain.

I’m Arnie Schmidt, Arnie said, quickly pushing up his eyeglasses so he could extend his arm to shake the guard’s hand.

Is that supposed to mean something to me?

As in … Gregory Schmidt … CEO and founder …

Arnie rescinded his arm and nodded toward the signage on a nearby wall. The guard pointed to a collection of nameplates, ranging from a talent agency to a realty office, and shrugged. Arnie smiled. He tilted his head to a more prominent moniker. The guard reluctantly turned to greet a large sign that read Schmidt & Associates: Full-Service Accounting, Premium Business Consulting, and Targeted Wealth Management. Sweat formed on the guard’s forehead. His spine bent toward the front counter. He scrambled to retrieve a clipboard with a list of the new hires.

Sign in, if you please, young Schmidt.

Arnie silently acquiesced. The security officer gently shoved Arnie into a photo booth. His self-esteem skyrocketed when the guard reached beneath the counter and fished out a lanyard and an ID card with Arnie’s name printed on it alongside his image and newfound title of Mail Room Processing Associate.

Your card will work for the mail room and maintenance room, he said as Arnie beamed