Internet Ready Fiction (IRFiction.com)

I can’t imagine anyone reading this isn’t aware of the ebook price war raging between Amazon and Macmillan, but if you aren’t you should certainly follow along (start with the NYT coverage; move to John Sargent’s letter to Macmillan authors, editors, and agents; finish with a good long read through #amazonfail and #macmillanfail on Twitter).

Pricing debates are nothing new to the ebook world. There are four deeply invested parties in book sales–digital or otherwise–and any decision has to take all four sets of interests into account.

1. Consumers/readers want ebooks to be cheaper than print books–and cheaper than Amazon’s $9.99 price point if possible. The cheaper the book is, the more books they can buy.
2. Booksellers–Amazon, B&N, Borders, Indies, reader-specific sellers like Sony, and now Apple’s iBooks–want ebooks to make them money. They may not have to pay for warehousing and shipping, but they need to pay for server space, e-commerce support, and maintenance. Super-cheap e-books won’t keep any of them afloat. It’s not free to sell an ebook.
3. Publishers want ebooks to make them money too, and they want to set the prices for each (print or digital) book separately. Sure there are not printing/shipping/warehousing costs, but some books are more expensive than others because of costly photo permissions or because extensive editing was needed or because an author needed a larger payment (see #4 below). And on top of that, publishers also need to pay for the tech infrastructure booksellers need. AND they need to make money after ensuring booksellers and authors get their respective cuts.  It’s not free to publish an ebook.
4. Of course authors want ebooks to make money: if people are buying ebooks instead of print books, authors still need and deserve compensation for their work. Imagine that it only takes a year to write a book (oh how wonderful that would be!), but then it takes a year to find a publisher, a year to edit it, and then another six months till it hits the shelves: and THAT’s not a bad timeline for a newer author. It’s no wonder it can take a decade to get a book published. So book sales–again, print AND digital–must pay for the author’s past four years of work. It’s not free to write an ebook.

So how can publishers give consumers what they want? Well some consumers–especially those in the Chris Anderson “information should be free” camp–won’t be happy to hear it but ebooks will never be given away without thought to profit. Not by booksellers, publishers, and authors that need/want to make money, anyway. But publishers can survive selling books at $9.99 or even lower. It’s truly possible, I promise!

My master’s thesis posited that publishers can streamline the production process, making it cheaper and faster to produce ebooks in house, by taking advantage of digital workflows like XML. I’ve since been introduced to CS4’s design-to-ePub capabilities that make a scaled-down digital workflow just as possible.

But without the right people to make these changes it’s impossible to create any added value. I can’t possibly imagine that most book editors are ready to think about chunking and disaggregating and re-purposing the same way Mike Shatzkin and his fellow StartWithXML-gurus suggest they should. India Amos makes a good point about the vast differences between digital design and traditional book design in a recent post. There is increasingly less and less room for close-minded publishing professionals crippled by their nostalgia print and their hatred for digital books.

The people driving the industry will soon be those who are prepared to think about two worlds at once, about several uses and markets for the same text, and about ever-more-efficient means of creating/editing/producing that text; these are the people who will make it possible for publishers of all sizes to make the necessary and revolutionary changes without facing financial failure.  These people do exist already, but we have to be ready to inspire more of them as they arrive straight out of school. We have to train savvy and enterprising digital revolutionaries and publishers need to take the right risks to hire them.

I believe an old-gen/new-gen collaboration would inspire a new golden age of publishing–one that rivals that long-lost era we all idealize. So publishers, take this pricing battle and turn it into something constructive, into a real game changer for the whole industry.

From: @andrewsavikas
Sent: Nov 24, 2009 5:52p

Techdirt: Publishers Getting The Wrong Message Over eBook Piracy http://post.ly/DLp7
sent via Posterous

On Twitter: http://twitter.com/andrewsavikas/status/6021998849

I’m so very disappointed by this news, more because I feel like this is more smoke and mirrors over the same fear that put publishers in a tight spot. Don’t worry about people stealing content: worry about making your content worth buying!

I’ve been remiss in posting, but you must forgive me: I spent the summer researching DRM and contract law for a directed study and now I am in the final days of finishing my thesis on digital publishing. I’ve added a few sections that I like as they are, but that most likely need to be edited down for the final text. I thought I’d sent them out into the universe to see what people think of them. You can find them in the brand new “Digital Publishing” section of the site, or via the links below.

“Introduction to ‘Surviving a Digital Disruption: Smart e-Book Publishing, Small Houses’”

“Reading in the Twenty-First Century: The Last Five Years“

Heard much about Holden Caulfield lately? I hadn’t expected to, and I was surprised to see The Catcher in the Rye surface as the latest copyright scuffle. I hardly dare admit that I’m not disheartened or offended at the case. (I’m waiting for the first bolt of literary lightning to hit me. But enough of that, my opinion of CitR is not an issue for this post) First of all, the book is so revered it can handle a fresh (read the double meaning) wind shaking things up a bit. Second, it’s a great reason to get online at the end of the day and say a few pertinent things.

Need to catch up on the case? I think the AP’s article covers it with the least bias I’ve seen. (Prefer tinted glasses in varying shades? Try The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Publisher’s Weekly, The Toronto Star, The San Francisco Chronicle, and Slate. Not to mention the whole publishing world will probably be on tenterhooks until the final appeal is finished.)

Having just finished some basic reading on copyright, I’m glad to hear that U.S. District Judge Deborah Batts is taking her time deciding. If I were her, I’d be dredging up cases and appeals left and right, too, not wanting to be the judge whom the Supreme Court points to as wrong in a summation. In my limited experience with copyright, I can see the following issues playing a central part in the case:

• Authorship and creativity: the prerequisites for originality. Obviously Colting wrote the book, but is “Mr. C” too closely related to Holden Caulfield to have been created (and thus copyrightable) by Colting? Did Colting successfully transform the original material?
• Parody and criticism. Colting maintains that if “Mr. C” is too closely related to Holden Caulfield, it is only because the character is being used as a means of critiquing Salinger.
• Sweat of the brow. I can definitely see the American perception of hard work and its rewards playing a huge role here, at least in public opinion. As U.S. Copyright Law specifies that originality is the foundation of American copyright, the actual process of writing a book doesn’t guarantee an author copyright. It’s why facts can’t be copyrighted and why so many factual compilations (think phone books). But most importantly, it’s why merely creating either character in question won’t guarantee either writer copyright over his work.
• Effects of alleged infringement. I’d certainly like to hear Salinger’s argument about how Colting’s book would harm Salinger’s “investment” in his CitR copyright. Does he think it’ll ruin booksales? When CitR could be the most widely assigned high school book? When it constantly ends up on the banned book lists? When people who once read library copies of CitR realize they need to buy another copy so they can figure out why Colting is so right or wrong in his opinions? Not to mention the fact that
• (Some) Effects of a(nother) Salinger win. Copyright is supposed to encourage authors to write by offering them a financial incentive. So Salinger, who hasn’t published anything since 1965, is taking advantage of the security afforded him by copyright laws. Rather than allowing copyright to police itself, he’s hoarded the rights to his work, thus limiting our cultural exposure to it. Not only would literature suffer the loss of a (purportedly) creative young critic’s work and the continued dearth of modern Salinger interpretations, but the boundaries of copyright precedent would constrict to shut out similar critics and to shut down other derivative (yet original) creative works.
• Effects of a Colting win. Parody will certainly gain momentum, if only in passing. Depending on the acutal measure of Colting’s literary greatness, a Colting win could mean a step down for the writing world or it could reenter an era of heightened wit and educated criticism. This ruling would certainly favor a relaxing of copyright law, though only slightly; it may have more effect on CitR than any other U.S. book for the next decade. If that’s the truth, I hope this book is worth it.

Having not read Colting’s book, I couldn’t really tell you I’d judge in favor of Colting, but I have to say that based on the elements I can judge from where I am now, Salinger either needs to bolster his case a bit or convince everyone that Colting’s work is less important than mud. As facts surface, as news reporters interview Judge Batts and publish court reports, I may return to reevaluate my assertions. For now, I’d like to hear what you think.

Further Reading:

IRFiction Wiki Topic: Copyright

Okay, so I haven’t been around in, oh. A year? More? Less? I don’t want to count. But I’ve found a way to breathe life back into this site, and I intend to make better use of the space.

So here’s the deal: I’ll be writing about digital rights management and contract law for electronic publishing as a final project for a directed study at Emerson. It may not be fiction, but it’s closely related to the heart of this site and the philosophy behind it’s creation.

So stay tuned. All non-fiction posts will be clearly labeled and cataloged w/ the appropriate category. If you have any questions or comments, feel free to check in!

“These people need this technology,” Peter said firmly. He shoved his long arms through his navy jacket and gripped his car keys in his right hand. The disc was in his jacket pocket—he’d copied the program months ago. Did Mark know that Peter had it all this time? “This could help thousands. Millions.”

“You can’t do this, Peter,” Mark said in a slightly raised voice. He gripped Peter’s shoulder.

Mark’s hand on him was a threat, Peter knew, but he was a larger man than Mark. He could hold his own if he had to.

“I can’t just sit by, Mark. I have to do something.”

“Yes you can. You can sit right here and wait for Johnson.”

“I’m not waiting for him. He’s dirty, Mark. He doesn’t have the company’s mission in mind.”

“He is the company’s mission, Peter. He is the company.”

Peter looked at Mark with disbelieving eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why do you think he was brought in six months ago, Peter? Why do you think the men upstairs have been shuffling around like they’re about to get the ax? Because they are, Peter. Johnson’s cleaning house, and it’s finally our turn to prove ourselves.” Mark crossed his arms. His explanation was painful. He didn’t want to tell Peter anything. Survival of the fittest.

“We developed this program to help people, Mark. Hospitals need this for all of their equipment and computers. We can’t sit on this one. I can’t. I refuse.”

Peter turned his back and left the room. He hastened to the elevator and pressed the down arrow several times. He shoved his hands in his pocket, feeling the small disc neatly tucked away. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he had to run. He hoped that all of the hospitals in the area would install the mysterious discs that had been mailed to them. He had a connection in a few local medical centers who worked in IT, so a few locations were a sure bet. Others, though, required his faith, and he had some left to give them.

He entered the elevator and pressed “CLOSE DOOR.” He felt safe as the metal box closed in front of him. That is, until a beefy hand shoved its way through, causing the doors to open.

“Peter Matius,” came a husky voice. “Mr. Johnson wishes to have a word.”

It was Johnson’s right hand body guard, Maverick—a pseudonym, to be sure. He entered the elevator with Peter and pressed the button for the sixth floor.

Peter said nothing. He felt Maverick’s thick fingers around his forearm as the machine slowly rose. He kept his hands in his pockets. He could still feel the disc. They don’t know about the other copies. They don’t know about the hospitals already installing the life saving software. Peter’s heart raced, but not in fear—in hope.

“Mr. Matius,” Johnson grinned. He was sinister, and his smiling mask only amplified his monster in Peter’s eyes. “Come into my office.”

Peter wasn’t led in the direction of Johnson’s office. Maverick gripped him firmly as he followed Johnson, who walked down a long corridor to a room with an unlabelled door. “Right this way, Mr. Matius.”

Peter’s jaw clenched as Maverick shoved him into the room. At its center was a large box with thick cords and colored wires attached to wrist and ankle cuffs. At the room’s perimeter were dozens of computers, all making up a large circle surrounding the strange machine. There was a bottle of Wild Turkey and an orange prescription bottle on a small table to the left of the machine.

“What is this?” Peter asked. “What’s going on?”

“Patience, Mr. Matius. You’re going to be the first to learn about our new information gathering technology,” Johnson explained. “Mr. Maverick, if you please.”

Maverick gripped Peter’s shoulders and shoved him toward the machine.

“I’m sure you’ll praise the technology’s efficiently, Mr. Matius,” Johnson said as Maverick forced Peter’s limbs into the restraints.

He heard several machines turn on. Johnson walked the perimeter looking at computer monitors. Something behind Peter surged into life with what sounded like incredible energy. It was the large, mysterious box behind him. It sounded like it could electrocute someone with the same power as a lightning bolt fresh from the angry heavens.

“Open wide,” Maverick smirked. He pulled Peter’s jaw down and threw several pills into his throat. He quickly poured Wild Turkey into his mouth, cupping his meaty hand over Peter’s mouth and jaw to ensure he’d swallow.

“Excellent work, Maverick,” Johnson said. “Let’s allow Mr. Matius to see what this technology is capable of.”

Johnson walked to Peter’s right and stood for a moment, looking at something behind him.

“What are you going to do to me?” Peter asked. His heart beat furiously in his throat.

“Patience, Mr. Matius,” John smiled devilishly.

Peter felt a surge of electricity come through his limbs. This would be his end, he knew. This would be how he would die. His vision failed him—he would be in eternal darkness soon.

“Give him some more Wild Turkey, Maverick,” he heard Johnson’s voice through the pain and the darkness. “The pills will keep him alive, the Wild Turkey will keep him buzzed, and the machine will make this feel like an eternity.” He laughed. “I wonder how many bottles of Wild Turkey it takes for a man’s liver to completely give out.”

God, I hate this.

I unzipped my suitcase and let the cover hang onto the bed. It smelled stuffy like old, dusty air and a bit like cigarettes. I bought this suitcase set—seven pieces for the low price of $79.95—when I went to Toronto. My first passport stamp. A rite of passage.

I threw things into the suitcase. There wasn’t much time. Just some clothes and whatever else I needed to get through this.

Twenty-six years old and dead. Died on the surgeon’s table for an appendectomy. Sons of bitches with scalpels and degrees and cotton masks covering their smug faces but not their beady greedy eyes.

I exhaled. It was cleansing.

How many outfits would I need for four days? Well, one outfit was already decided. I pulled the modest black dress covered in a black trash bag from the closet and folded it in half in the bottom of the suitcase.

I grabbed a few books, one of them a Bible, and laid them all across the bottom, making a hilly foundation for the rest of the stuff going in there. My Bible was worn. I’d been reading Ecclesiastes and singing The Birds in my head as I read.

To everything

Turn turn turn

There is a season

Turn turn turn

I grabbed some jeans and t-shirts, critiquing their quality as I haphazardly folded them and tossed them inside. I grabbed underwear and socks. I grabbed perfume and deodorant. I threw in dress shoes and sneakers, one at a time. I would be wearing my flip flops on the plane.

A time to be born

A time to die

Why couldn’t I be packing for a better trip? Like going to the beach. Well, I live forty minutes from the beach. All I would pack would be some cash and sun block. Forty-five SPF. Water Babies. The serious sun block that pale blue-eyed girls like me cake on to avoid our porcelain skin to turn fire engine red because we can’t tan. I’d probably bring a book. Something small that I can put down at a moment’s notice. Something easy. Something lacking commitment. Maybe Eragon or Northanger Abbey. Something small. Something easy.

A time to sow

A time to reap

What about a trip to Europe? I would need a week to pack for a trip to Europe. Or just a backpack, rough it with as little as possible like you hear from other people. It’s the stuff of legend. Can it really happen? It would be hard for someone like me, who packs a variety of things to prepare for my wavering moods. Maybe Ender’s Game, Wuthering Heights, and Deathly Hallows—suiting all types of tastes and moods. And a notebook, so I can pretend I’m Orson Scott Card or Emily Bronte or J.K. Rowling and write a saga of my own.

A time to kill

A time to heal

Wait. Did I pack any books? Oh, of course I did. There was The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe next to The Once and Future King. She would describe Peter Pevensie as an admiring fan, making him tangible. I would read it to her, and she would swoon, “Oh, Peter!” in her best British accent. We should have been studying for exams, but what college sophomore actually studies? I took her to the movie for her birthday. She and I cried into our popcorn when the White Witch ran the dagger through Aslan. She always got extra butter and emptied a bag of M&Ms into the bucket and never gained a pound.

Liam Neeson has a beautiful voice. He should read books on tape.

I grabbed my hairbrush, mousse, and blow dryer. I couldn’t possibly leave without these.

I looked at her picture on my dresser. It was wedged between my mirror and its wooden frame among others from my life. Twenty-six and dead. She was happy in this photo, standing in front of our college dorm freshman year. That was so long ago. That was yesterday.

A time to laugh

A time to weep

I was her maid of honor. I helped her husband figure out a way to propose. I helped her pack her life in boxes to move to Cincinnati with her new husband and new life. I told her she would hate the cold and not to call me at Christmas to complain about the ice on her windows while I wore shorts and flip flops to deal with Florida’s constant summer in winter. (Florida always confuses the seasons, so it sticks with what it knows: blistering heat. There are a few days out of the year that I have to break out my college sweatshirt.)

College sweatshirt. Cincinnati is going to be cold. I grabbed that from the depths of my closet and threw it over everything else in my suitcase. It smelled like the suitcase. Would I have enough perfume? Never mind. She’ll let me use her washer and dryer.

Turn, turn, turn.

Oh, yeah.

He saw a man holding a cardboard sign that read “The End is Near.” What a tease. The same man trades off one cardboard sign for another every few days–the other is “Jesus Saves.” Does it still count for an immortal? What good does salvation do a man who can never die to enjoy it? That’s the point of salvation–avoid hell at all costs.

He sighed bitterly and tried to change his thinking from eternity to the present.

She’ll be here, he thought, feeling slightly anxious. She’ll be here.

He wiped down tables and the bar as people began coming in. The acoustic musician for the night was setting up on stage, freeing his evening of musical obligation. He would only have to leave her if something happened–something big. His staff, although small in number, could handle nearly anything.

“Testing,” said the musician while her help adjusted the soundboard. “Testing. One. Two.”

He checked the bar supply and made mental stock of what needed refilling.

“Are you nervous or something” his curious bar back asked.

“Why? Does it show?” he smirked.

“Just a bit. You’re doing my job for me. That’s all.”

He playfully raised both hands. “Sorry. It’s all yours.”

The bar back laughed. “So what’s the count?”

“No sweat. I’ll get it. I need to stay busy.”

He walked into the storeroom and grabbed several bottles without really reading any of their labels. He thought about several things at once–the woman on her way to his bar (or, perhaps, not on her way–but he wasn’t going to let that kind of negativity in), his future that was endless, and the books in his office that hadn’t been balanced in six months. He thought about those cardboard signs again. He thought about how he wanted a guarantee that he would end up peaceful and happy.

There are no guarantees.

Well, except his absurd age. It would only increase. That was a safe bet.

He brought his bar back several drinks and mixes and left him to sort through it all. He listened as the musician began playing the opening chords of her first song. He hoped for a simple, quiet evening–almost like a normal date. Sure, the meeting place was his bar, but normalcy may still be achieved. He was going to take what he could get.

“She’ll be here,” his bar back said. “She’s not the stand-up kind.”

You sure? he wanted to ask out loud. He politely smiled, hating how nervous he felt and how apparently transparent he was. It wasn’t like she was the first woman, and, thanks to his incessant aging process, she probably wouldn’t be the last.

He wasn’t a player. He didn’t just date a woman because of superficial and fleeting reasons. He still firmly gripped his monogamous beliefs thanks to his religious upbringing. But knowing that he would probably encounter several women who would somehow gain his interest, he winced at the naked truth of it all.

He was overreacting. Nerves make the thought process go awry.

He rested his elbows against the bar, conveniently in full view of the front door while under the guise of the nearby stage and the act performing there.

“So are you going to buy me a drink or what?”

He perked up only to find a strange woman in her little black dress batting her eyes his way as she approached the bar.

“That would be very nice to the rest of the lovely women here,” he benignly replied.

“I’m sure we could work something out,” she persisted. The thick, sultry cover in her voice was like nails on a chalkboard.

The front door opened. The night’s breeze rushed in and livened his warm skin. It was her–the woman he was waiting for, shy and beautiful. She had arrived.

Albeit unwittingly, he rudely left the strange flirtatious woman who unabashedly fought for his attention. He felt his feet move him toward the one he really wanted to talk to.

“Hey,” she shyly smiled.

“Hey. You’re here.” Really smooth.

“You’re very perceptive,” she joked. She looked at her hands, which were fussing with the cuffs of her jacket sleeves. She was adorable.

“Let’s sit,” he invited, gesturing to an empty table for two.

He heard her exhale slowly when she saw the secluded spot, but she managed her composure as she sat. Could she be nervous at their exclusivity? He surprised her when he held her chair and slid it beneath her as she sat. He was still a man from a different time, and old habits die hard.

He kept his opinions to himself (mostly), but he had never fully grasped the women’s liberation movement. What Women Say vs. What Women Do. Women want an equal playing field socially and economically, but they are ready to put out a man’s eyes when said male neglects to open a door for any woman.  Women want to be treated like men, but they want to be treated like women.

All of this coming from a man who was still accustomed to women in dresses with no voting rights. He kept his self mocking chuckle inside as he sat opposite his date.

Date? Did she think this was a date? She was dressed fairly casually, but he couldn’t let clothes reveal truth. Women wore pants now, even to fine events like dates.

“There is a question I’m dying to ask you.” He tried to hide the self-appreciative smirk related to his unabashed pun.

“Shoot.”

“What’s your name?”

She laughed. Her laugh was wonderful–enthusiastic while enjoyable, bold but still feminine. “Charlotte.”

Charlotte. He pictured southern plantations and fields of dancing grain in summertime. “I’m James.”

He wasn’t sure why–maybe he was seeing things–but her body seemed to relax completely.

“It’s nice to meet you, James.” She said his name with a softened J, not hardened like most Js most people say. It was smooth, quiet, like her demeanor.

“And you, Charlotte.”

He read an expression on her face. She seemed curious but too shy to satiate her inquisitiveness. “So–”

“So–”

They laughed awkwardly at their simultaneous attempt at breaking the silence between them. She looked down at her hands and he watched her blush.

“You go first,” he said. “I’m terrible at initiating conversation.”

“You seemed fairly adept with taking the first verbal step this morning.” She smiled slightly still looking at her hands. “I was going to ask you where you’re from.”

“All over, really.” That didn’t even resemble an answer.

“Am I getting too personal?” she asked quickly. “That’s the sort of thing people say when they don’t want to answer.”

She, too, was prone to defining, analyzing, and even naming the typical.

“Biloxi, Mississippi. That’s where I grew up.”

“You don’t have the accent.”

“I haven’t lived there in many years. I supposed I’ve lost it.”

“Except when you said my name. It was almost there.”

“Well, a southern name like Charlotte, rich with dignity and charm, should only be said with the truest of southern accents.”

“Actually, my name is French. I suppose the south adopted the name thanks to the infusion of French culture in Louisiana.” She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I was rambling. I’m a nervous rambler.”

He wanted to reassure her and tell her that she shouldn’t be nervous, but he couldn’t in good conscience. His own nerves were going to send him through the roof.

Did it show? Were his boyish ticks and sweaty palms blatantly obvious?

He nonchalantly rubbed his palms against his jeans. One down. Several hundred more to go. 

She had a theory.

Scientifically, it didn’t count as a theory. She formulated her analysis one afternoon during lunch in high school, and, well past college graduation, it stayed with her. She never uttered her theory out loud but often referred to it when the data was called into question.

If a woman’s name had more syllables than her husband’s or boyfriend’s, then their relationship would be successful.

Well, she would be the first to admit her theory’s lack of sensibility, and there would always be exceptions, but, usually, the theory held true.

It was true for her parents–thirty years happily married.

It was true for her best friend–yet unmarried with a series of bad break-ups with men whose names could not fit the equation.

It was true for her. A man with more syllables in his name wouldn’t give her the time of day. It was especially hard for her with her name only having two syllables. She watched out for the monosyllabic men, but most were far from her type–her type being single, straight, and remotely attractive.

She looked at her reflection. She was wearing the fifth outfit in a row. She was frustrated with excitement and anxiety–and nothing matched. Why did he surprise her like that? She had no time to prepare. She needed time to put together a knock-out outfit. She needed time to get her makeup just right. She was never girly. She wasn’t overly feminine. She still didn’t know how to fix her hair–she just moussed and teased a lot.

She remembered her friends from home who knew everything about clothes and men. She didn’t have friends here–just a job with adequate pay and a dead social life.

Her friends would probably frown upon her frequent visits to the same bar. They would understand, though, if they could see the man who owns said bar and who surprised her with hope in seeing her tonight. They would understand when they heard him sing, but she didn’t want that. Competition would run rampant among them, and she wanted him all to herself.

She returned to the third outfit she previously tried–a complimentary black sweater with her best blue jeans–and finally decided that casual was best for a bar previously encountered. As she inspected her choice in her full-length mirror, she pictured his face, his smile–how his mouth would move when he would say hello. Ideally, he would tell her how beautiful she looked when she walked through the door of his bar and he pulled out her reserved seat at an intimate table for two. He would say charming things as he looked at her in a manner she had only dreamed of (and, obviously, dreams of still). Then, when the moment was right, he would lean in and gently touched her lips with his.

She shook her head, refocusing on her reflection, and became angry with herself. She had another theory, one that always came true.

If she thought or fantasized about something, especially something in her near future, then she jinxed it. It wouldn’t happen. She would live in her mind, but it would never occur in reality.

Frustrated, she began to fix her hair (moussing and teasing). Just then, she feared what his name was. She knew it had to have several syllables–so many that only women blessed with names like Alexandria would stand a chance.

Five big syllables–who does that?

She was reluctant to leave her apartment knowing that she didn’t give her appearance her all. Her hometown friends blessed with polysyllabic names would’ve done wonders, but one must work with what one has been given. She stepped through her apartment door, and, while securing the deadbolt, felt nervous anxiety relieve her mind of her appearance to focus on her lack of verbal skills around members of the opposite sex–well, the ones she found attractive. What would she say? How would she aid conversation should things lull?

She had some great stories from college.

She had some great stories experienced by other people–she always kept the really good ones on file just in case.

Maybe he would take control and do all of the talking. He took serious initiative by approaching her this afternoon.

Yeah–he approached her.

Her steps on the damp pavement echoed against the cold brick buildings with a bit more confidence as she steered her two-block course to his bar. He probably wouldn’t care about her clothes–he wanted her.

She imagined him smiling, thinking that her overall awkwardness was cute.

“Oh, crap!” She exclaimed aloud.

Jinx.

He wiped down his tables as the morning neared ten o’clock. He loved the quiet solitude of his bar every morning; he could think with no interruptions or distractions be himself for a short, blessed time without fear of someone reacting to who he truly was. His body superseded Homo Sapien status in that his superhuman cells allowed for speed, strength, and health, but he seemed a normal, common human man.

Common, that is, except for his heightened attractive quality. He was quite plain prior to his transformation, but he knew his alluring mystery was meant to help feed his addiction. His conscience, though, left completely in tact by that madman all those years ago, disallowed his primal wants to be fully met.

He threw his washcloth into a sink of bleach water and picked up the grocery list he compiled for his bar. He opened the front door and blessed the overcast, shielding his aged eyes and skin from the harsh sunlight. He heard singing birds in the small trees planted in the sidewalk. Something about this attempt at preserving nature never sat well with him, but he rarely understood twenty-first century humans with their lust for technology and progress for progress’s sake.

He entered the small grocery store, ringing the overhead brass bell, and found a small basket. He hated grocery shopping–he hated all shopping. A small boy ran from aisle to aisle in a feeble for still effective attempt to elude his clearly frustrated mother. Parenthood wasn’t entirely appealing–about as appealing as shopping.

Mentally groaning, he pressed forward and began gathering the items on his list. He started with the lemons and limes in produce and worked his way back to roasted peanuts and potato chips. There were times he would enjoy junk food and finer cuisine despite his everlasting lack of an appetite, but potato chips were is downfall. The salty crunch on his heightened sense of taste was almost a religious experience. He grabbed an extra bag of sour cream and onion for insurance, thankful that no one could hear his thoughts praising his extraordinary metabolism.

He stood behind the frantic mother and her rambunctious aisle-jumping son at the check-out. She had the boy’s small hand in hers, tightening her grip and pulling him back when he would try to escape. The small boy looked up at him with wide curious eyes, spotting the recognizable bags of sour cream and onion chips and, having been taught how to share with his peers in kindergarten, was anxious for his cut of the man’s snack.

“Stop staring,” the mother chastised, pulling her son down to their bagged groceries. They left with the boy glancing back at the chips.

“Hi, how are you?” the cashier mechanically asked.

“Fine.” No sense in attempting small talk. Why waste the effort when she wouldn’t appreciate it?

“Twenty seven thirty,” the cashier said.

He paid and left with a brief “thanks.” The birds in the caged sidewalk trees were still singing.

Then he saw her. She was across the street at an open coffee cart paying for her beverage of choice.

“I just want a blank coffee,” his super hearing eavesdropped. “Just black.”

The vendor pushed the daily special–a mocha something-or-other–but she knew what she wanted. He didn’t realize that a small thing like coffee could increase already growing affections and curiosities.

He crossed the street and silently stood behind her. Once she paid and picked up the steaming cup of black coffee, he said, “Hi.”

She turned around quickly with widened eyes that could compete with the aisle-jumping potato chip enthusiast. When was “hi” earth shattering? He held back a laugh and smirked instead.

“Hi,” she slowly replied.

“You look different in daylight.” He enjoyed the fair shade of pink that crept onto her cheeks.

“The same could be said for you.”

“It’s amazing what the time of day can do.” He tilted his head to the side. “Are you a connoisseur?”

Understandably, she was confused until he looked at the coffee cup in her hand. She laughed.

“You seemed pretty adamant about your selection.”

“I was pretty animated, wasn’t I?” She smiled. She had such white teeth. “And no. I don’t even like coffee. My boss requested some, and our break room is fresh out.”

“And your boss gets what he wants?”

“He’s one of those polite dictators. You’ll end up doing whatever he wants without realizing you’ve become indentured.”

She was intelligent. His attraction rose. He could smell her–perfume, scent, everything–and she was intoxicating. Would he maintain control? His senses were already near overdrive. If the wind blew in the wrong direction, he would lose his grip.

“I should be getting back,” she said when he didn’t pick up conversation. “My boss will turn the office upside down searching for his coffee.”

“Will I see you tonight?” He prayed that his hopeful tone and expression were enough to make up for his rude and awkward silence. He knew this infatuation was dangerous, but he couldn’t deny the exhilarating rush.

“Sure,” she smirked. He could almost hear her pulse quicken.

“Great.” He made sure to flash his bright smile before saying, “See you tonight.” He turned and crossed the street, smiling to himself. He heard her gasp “Oh, my God” under her breath, only adding to his already charged adrenaline.