Slant Rhyme

By Jeffrey Stoker

Following his debut in Metaphor magazine, Jeffrey Stoker delivers a captivating collection of stories that demonstrates his range and versatility as an author. Using rich, eloquent prose, Stoker deftly explores the concepts of greed, faith, and loyalty, as well as the dangers that arise from human desires left unchecked. The result? A work as unsettling as it is unpredictable, as fresh as it is poignant.

This collection introduces a new master of the short story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503564657

Jeffrey Stoker

JEFFREY STOKER lives in Layton, Utah, taking his dog for walks, working out at the gym, and hoping to one day regain his sense of smell. Iconic Reflections is first book, although he’s also written a novella, a one-act play, and numerous film reviews. He’s currently working on a collection of short stories.

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Copyright © 2015 by Jeffrey Stoker.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 06/30/2015

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CONTENTS

FICTION

Acrotomophilia

The Seduction of Steve and Jessica Wilson

Follow These Simple Instructions

Slant Rhyme

The Tour Guide

Something for Nothing

Ms. Shoulder Makes a Contribution

Sixes and Sevens

A.P. Upended

NONFICTION

A Parasitic Predicament

FICTION

Acrotomophilia

1.

"You introduce the main character in chapter one, and then we don’t see him again until chapter five. You can’t do that!"

Well, what’s your suggestion, then? That I put him in every goddamn chapter, regardless of what the plot dictates?

Don’t be so defensive, Sky. You asked me to forget that I’m your girlfriend and give you my honest, unbiased opinion, and that’s what I’m trying to do. Edith shifted her weight from one side of her chair to the other, using only her hips. Her right arm, which due to a birth defect terminated at the elbow in a lumpy sanguine stump, strained straight out to the side from the effort, flapping ineffectually, almost uncertainly, up and down like a chicken wing; by contrast, her left arm, which she was using to keep her spiral notebook pressed against the front of her white short sleeved dress shirt, didn’t move at all. There’s also the issue of time to consider, she added. If you’re gonna turn everything I say into a debate, we’ll never get finished here. My break’s already half over.

Skyler sucked at the mouthpiece of his 24-ounce stainless-steel thermos, grimacing from the acrid taste of the burnt coffee inside. Not only is she a philistine, he thought, she can’t even brew a decent pot of coffee.

They were sitting at a table in The Pitcher & Lark Book Co. café. It was a hot Tuesday afternoon in August — outside the temperature was 110 degrees, a high number even by Plain City standards — and Skyler, still perspiring from his one-minute trek through the parking lot fifteen minutes earlier, fanned himself off by beating the front of his two-tone bowling-style shirt against his chest. For Edith, who worked full time in the café, The Pitcher & Lark Book Co. was somewhere to earn a living and nothing more, but for Skyler, who was a regular customer, and had been a regular customer long before Edith had gotten hired on as a barista, it was somewhere to read and write, and to edit the things that he’d written, and to conduct research on the things that he planned to write. Plain City was a utilitarian and prosaic place, a desert comprised primarily of farms, residential areas, and industrial parks. It had no college or university to speak of, and neither did any of the surrounding cities; Skyler therefore regarded the bookstore as a sort of oasis. He loved the daily rush he received when he first entered the store and the rich, sharp aroma of coffee wafted towards him from the back corner. On good days the dimly-lit, clay-and-tan-colored café worked like his muse, its caffeine stimulating his brain cells, its oversize posters of great novels — the posters were mounted to foam core and hung at regular intervals along the walls — inspiring him.

Edith slapped her notebook onto the wood-lined tile tabletop. Why are you writing about fairies and wizards, anyway? It’s all so phony! Don’t you want to be taken seriously as a writer? Fastidiously, she reached up with her hand and patted the edges of her head with her fingertips, as if afraid that the force of slapping her notebook onto the table had somehow mussed the severe bun she kept her long ash-brown hair pulled into.

It’s starting to seem like you didn’t like it, said Skyler.

Meh … it was good. I’m just not a big fan of the fantasy genre.

2.

Skyler finished revising his manuscript that Wednesday, then purchased a current publishing guide at The Pitcher & Lark Book Co. on Saturday and spent the entire afternoon in the café poring over the listings (Edith, utilizing her day off, sensibly cloistered herself away in their chintzy-but-cozy two-bedroom apartment to do some cleaning). He found a number of publishing houses that seemed promising, but the most promising one by far was called Pick Publishing, Inc. It was as if their listing had been written with him and his novel particularly in mind:

Tired of being rejected? Have a manuscript with questionable marketability, something you’re worried won’t stand a chance in today’s competitive publishing climate? If so, we’re the publisher for you! We specialize in helping writers get published when they can’t get published anywhere else. Accept all genres, styles, and lengths. Whatever ya got, send it in! No simultaneous submissions, please.

Elated, he snapped the book shut, drove straight home, and ran off a fresh copy of his manuscript. Then he deposited the manuscript into his leather satchel, leaving the satchel on the kitchen counter, where he’d be sure to see it on his way out the door in the morning.

That night, as a way of celebrating his exciting new publishing prospect, Skyler asked Edith to prepare cream of tuna on toast, his favorite meal, for supper; she obliged. Later, after gorging themselves on said cream of tuna, the two adjourned to the bedroom and made love (in keeping with tradition, Skyler lay on Edith’s left side post-coital, enabling them to hold hands in the darkness).

Can I ask you something, Sky?

At this, the muscles in Skyler’s body convulsed in the darkness and his heart skipped a beat. God, Edith, you startled me. I thought you were asleep.

She cleared her throat with uncharacteristic nervousness. "When we’re having sex, I’ve noticed that you tend to focus a lot of your attention on my stump. It almost seems like you — I dunno, like you’re into it."

Skyler hesitated, making sure to choose his next words with extreme care. He’d known from the beginning that this topic of conversation might someday surface, and now here it was. (Technically Skyler could have kept his fetish hidden from Edith all this time, pretending to not be turned on by her stump, but somehow that tack had always seemed asinine to him. When the thing that aroused you more than anything else in the world was right there in front of you, didn’t it make sense to enjoy it?) Well, I guess in some kinky sort of way …

So I’m right?

Yes.

How do you think that makes me feel?

Would you prefer it if I was disgusted by your stump? You should be flattered.

Uh-uh, Sky. It’s not flattering. It’s degrading.

Why?

Take a wild guess. You’re attracted to the thing I hate most about myself. My biggest flaw. It’s like I’m a geek at a carnival show.

Oh, don’t be silly. You’re not a geek. You’re just a dork.

Summarily, Edith let go of Skyler’s hand. Good night, she said.

The next morning, Skyler and Edith, both sleepy-eyed, slogged out to the apartment’s carport and squeezed themselves into the space between his cherry-red bug and her silver hatchback. Then, hoping to earn some girlfriend points, Skyler assisted Edith with her clay-colored apron, fastening its strings behind her back.

Thanks, said Edith. She smoothed out the front of the apron with her hand, then used said hand to indicate Skyler’s satchel, which hung at his side from a leather strap. You should at least talk to them before mailing that out, y’know. You should at least ask them a few things about their corporation.

Nothing doing. If I start asking a bunch of questions they’ll think I’m a prima donna.

So what? Who gives a damn?

I don’t want to scare them off. The inside of his chest was throbbing with the disconcertingly-dry, itch-like tingle of stress-induced heartburn; by rote, he closed his eyes and took in a series of deep breaths through his nose, waiting for the pain to subside. When it didn’t he popped some antacid tablets into his mouth and crunched on them.

Doesn’t it seem odd to you that they have no web site? said Edith. And why are they so eager to help everybody? What’s in it for them?

Skyler swallowed the broken up pieces of tablets. Then he stooped down to give Edith a quick peck on the cheek (they were actually the same height as each other, five-foot-six, but Skyler, preferring to feel taller than the women he dated, wore lifts in his shoes). Have fun at P and L.

I still say you should call the editor, Sky.

What would be the sense of me calling him ‘Sky’?

Edith rolled her eyes. Everything’s a joke to you, isn’t it?

One week later, Pick Publishing, Inc. sent Skyler an acceptance letter via email. Grinning goofily, Skyler printed the attached file, titled Approval Form.wpd, then held the printout straight out in front of him with both hands and skimmed through it, lazily skipping down to the fine print almost immediately. By signing your name to this document, he muttered, … legal right to alter your manuscript … benefit sales … blah, blah, blah.

Straight off, before Edith could wake up from the nap she was taking and try to talk him out of it, Skyler signed the form, drove to a nearby copy center, and faxed said form in to Pick Publishing, Inc. Like Edith, he thought it might be risky putting his trust in a place as sketchy as Pick Publishing, Inc.; nevertheless, if taking a risk resulted in him being able to write for a living and quit his job (he worked full time at an airbag-manufacturing facility, toeing the line), he was all for it. His unpublished author status hadn’t seemed so dire when he’d still been in his twenties, but recently he’d turned thirty, and ever since then he’d felt more pressure than ever to succeed.

3.

Skyler’s fetish, once revealed, steadily drove a wedge between him and Edith; there seemed to be nothing that either of them could do to stop this from happening. I’ve got Acrotomophilia, he told her one day, a sexual predilection for amputees. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember, and believe me, if there was any way to get rid of it, I would.

Edith felt objectified whenever they made love, now, as if the only thing that Skyler found attractive about her was her half-arm. She voiced this suspicion to him on a number of occasions, and after a while he began to keep his vigor for her deformity in check, acting as if he couldn’t care less about it. It was an unnatural thing to do, but Skyler did it anyway, desperate to please her. What were the chances that he’d ever meet another amputee, and that, even if he did, said amputee would be available and attracted to him?

In spite of Skyler’s subterfuge, convincing though it may have been, Edith wasn’t fooled. She appreciated the effort he was making, but all the same she could tell that he was holding back. His performance in bed had gone from passionate to perfunctory overnight. It was obvious.

Every so often they’d break up with each other and sleep in separate rooms. Then, invariably, they’d get back together two or three days later, attempting to work things out.

The arguments they had were constant, often vehement:

What if you started seeing a therapist, Sky?

That wouldn’t do any good. Like I said before, people are attracted to what they’re attracted to. Period.

So you’re not even willing to try?

It’s a waste of money. Besides, I don’t see why I should have to change, anyway. What’s so horrible about a guy having a thing for stumps?

It’s creepy!

Don’t be so dramatic! You act like I’m a pedophile!

The two would go around and around like that, sometimes for hours on end, never getting anywhere.

For Skyler there was an additional source of anxiety, exacerbating the conflict he was having with Edith: his dealings with Pick Publishing, Inc. He’d expected to receive a set of book galleys from the corporation, and when he hadn’t he’d sent them an email. In it he’d said that, as requested, he’d faxed Pick Publishing, Inc. a signed approval form, but that so far he hadn’t heard back from them. Should he expect any follow-up correspondence? he’d asked. When would his novel be available in stores?

He’d been polite and professional.

Days had passed with no reply, then weeks. Incensed, Skyler booked a flight to Scope, the city where Pick Publishing, Inc. was located. He had to speak to someone, preferably the owner. He had to find out what was going on — this was his book!

Edith wanted to join him as a show of support, but she felt that she couldn’t afford the airfare on her salary; as an alternative, she switched shifts with someone at work, thus freeing up her morning so that she could drive Skyler to the airport.

Just before Skyler scrambled out of the hatchback at the airport drop-off zone, Edith gave him a hug. Be careful, Sky, she said. This place is gonna be a lot bigger than what you’re used to.

Skyler was in high spirits on the flight over. At ease. He had every right to be doing this and he knew it. After all, if he didn’t look out for himself, who would?

It was only when he emerged from the terminal and stepped foot inside Scope’s airport that he began to second-guess himself.

Was coming here a premature move? Irrational, even? What if Pick Publishing, Inc. had never even gotten his email? What if their system had been down when he sent it? That type of thing happened all the time — computers were anything but foolproof.

What were these sophisticated Scopers going to think of a man who traveled thousands of miles just to speak with someone face-to-face?

Skyler crunched on his antacid tablets all through the cab ride. Unfamiliar, for the most part, with his sprawling convoluted surroundings, he never knew how much farther the taxi had to go; the fact that it could pull up to Pick Publishing, Inc. at any moment, without warning, put him on constant edge. At the same time, he didn’t want to know how much farther the taxi had to go, so he never asked — at least that way he could keep telling himself that the building was still a safe, comfortable distance away.

The ride went on for what seemed like an hour; paradoxically, Skyler could have sworn that it lasted no more than ten minutes. (Interestingly enough, when the ride was over and Skyler checked his watch, he found that the duration had actually been somewhere in between those two estimates, that exactly thirty-six minutes had passed from the time he’d hopped into the taxi to when the cabbie had pulled into a car-crammed parking lot and exclaimed, loudly but without enthusiasm, Here it is, pal! Pick Publishing!)

After paying the fare and climbing out of the cab, Skyler dismissed the driver by rapping his fist on the trunk a couple of times. Then he buttoned his houndstooth sports jacket and, steeling his nerves, pivoted around to face the building.

A twenty-story obelisk, blazing skyward, met his gaze, and after looking it up and down for a minute, he whistled with fascination: Hardwired to perceive symbolic imagery in real-life settings, he saw what stood before him as phallic. Not only was the building penis-shaped (more or less), terra-cotta bricks, the color of flesh, populated its exterior, and prickly sun-browned shrubs, looking uncannily like pubic hair, stretched languidly along its perimeter.

"Gee, I hope I won’t have to be too hard on them," he said, beaming sardonically, grateful that he could always find something funny to say, even amidst a nerve-racking experience such as this. Then he forced a serious expression back onto his face and marched importantly towards Pick Publishing, Inc.’s double-door entrance.

4.

During the elevator’s ascent to suite 10, the publishing department, Skyler adjusted the knot on his necktie — straightened and tightened it. Don’t let these people intimidate you, he said, under his breath. What do you have to be insecure about? You’re an author, for Christ’s sake! A published author! How many people from Plain City can say that?

Presently the doors parted, opening onto a narrow hallway that was lined on either side with cheaply-framed posters. As he negotiated the path he rotated his neck in his collar, left and right, affording each poster a brief onceover. They appeared to be book excerpts, each of them blown up to poster-size and buried under a spate of red proofreading marks (Skyler assumed that, if they were excerpts, they’d come from separate works of literature, as the font style changed slightly from poster to poster).

Midway through the hall he pulled himself to a stop, having recognized one of the posters as an excerpt from his own novel.

Oh — what in hell?

Promptly, he moved closer to the excerpt.

The poster was considerably taller than Skyler, its bottom edge level with his knees, its top edge extending a couple of feet above his head, and on the whole something about it made him feel ill-at-ease, vulnerable. It was roughly the same reaction he’d had the first time he’d showered in the locker room in junior high school. He could swear the poster had eyes, judgmental eyes he couldn’t see so much as sense.

To acclimate himself, he read through the first several lines of text on the poster; they were neat and tidy, being typewritten, but also furry and white-flecked, due to their significantly magnified sizes. He identified the excerpt in no time flat — it was chapter thirteen, three or four pages into it — then switched his attention to the editor’s correction marks.

The marks were ubiquitous, overwhelming.

Apparently the editor had been dissatisfied with everything that Skyler had written. In each paragraph countless words and phrases (or in some instances entire sentences) had been mercilessly scratched out; moreover, there were carets everywhere, indicating material to be inserted. Arrows trailed in all directions from the text to the margins, and at their pointed heads, scrawled in a manic, barely legible hand, were a multitude of notes — some of the notes intricate and loquacious, but most consisting of succinct one-word observations: clichéd, purple, vague, contrived, constipated, facile …

Skyler felt his ego coming apart, dwindling like a lump of snow put onto a hot skillet. He wanted to look away, but the critiques were hypnotic. They were like a powerful ocean vortex, pulling him in against his will.

A short while later Skyler became aware of someone moving stridently along the hall towards the elevator; reflexively, he turned away from the poster — turned just in time to see a man in his mid-to-late forties, tan, ruggedly handsome, and over six feet tall, pass by. Impulsively, he, Skyler, cast his eyes floorward, noticing with bemusement the man’s offbeat choice of footwear: flip-flops.

Writers — we’re such an eccentric bunch!

Shaking his head incredulously, Skyler resumed his journey down the hall. Before long, he rounded a corner, came upon a window with the words publishing department painted across it in gold, black-edged, Times New Roman-style letters, and drew to a halt. Then, positioning his arms akimbo, he leaned forward to peer inside.

The room’s appearance matched the way that Skyler had imagined it to a T: posh, modern, brightly-lit. Slowly, he sidled past the window, stopping when he reached the room’s entrance, a thick mahogany door. Then he took a deep breath, yanked the door open, and went inside.

There was so much to see, so much to absorb, that at first Skyler had difficulty deciding in which direction to proceed. Fortunately, after a minute he spotted a young woman with a secretarial mien — her desk was larger than anyone else’s and she was modeling a smart A-line haircut and an equally smart pewter-gray pantsuit — and, feigning confidence, swaggered up to her.

The woman produced a smile, which Skyler instinctively interpreted as artificial. Good afternoon, she said, not getting up.

May I speak to the manager?

Mr. Pick’s not here at the moment. Do you have an appointment?

When do you expect him back?

Sir, if you’d like to make an appointment and come back at a later date, I’d be happy to —

Pick Publishing has optioned my novel.

That, he was glad to see, secured her attention. Oh. Well congratulations. What’s your novel called?

Prismatic Allusions.

Hmm … why does that sound so familiar? Studiously, she looked the room over. Then her eyes locked onto something behind Skyler and an unmistakable look of recognition seized her face. But it was more than a look of recognition — it was also a look of alarm.

Skyler spun away from the woman, attempting to trace her sightline. Directly ahead of him, now, was a small card table, and fanned out in a neat arch across its black Naugahyde surface was an assortment of hardbound books. The books were of a uniform size, 6 x 9; however, their spine thicknesses varied and jackets of different colors (or in some cases jackets of different shades of the same color) dressed them, making it obvious they weren’t multiple copies of one work. To the right of the table stood a cardboard cutout, tall and broad, dark brown, and relatively shapeless. Near the top of said cutout, centered in orange, Comic Sans-style letters, were the words Shit Lit.

Skyler dashed up to the display table, then bent down to read the titles on the spines. As soon as he found the book he was searching for, his, he snatched it off the table and opened it to the first page. That done, he flipped through the book from start