Read Online Hell in a Handbasket - The Journey by Damara Blackthorne - Free Book Online
Authors: Damara Blackthorne
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better watch
over her cornflakes or medication!
* * * *
I hadn't had a
chance to get anything to eat or drink when people started streaming into the
room and taking seats. All of the seats filled up but two, one at the head of
the table facing the window and one next to it facing the buffet sideboard and
me, with its back to the wall. I stayed right where I was waiting to see who
would fill them up.
"Ahem…"
A short plump elderly man with gray hair was sitting in the other chair beside
the empty head chair. His chair was facing the wall, and he had to turn in order
to see me. "Miss Bendis?"
"Yes…"
That came out sounding more like a question as confidence eluded me.
The plump
gentleman motioned to the empty seat across from his, on the other side of the
head seat. "Please take a seat. We have much to discuss. There will be
plenty of time for refreshments when we are done." Man, he and Miss
Perky-Snot must share the same corn flakes or mental health doctor.
"Yes, of
course." Embarrassment ran through me and I felt my skin burn as a blush
scaled up my neck and devoured my face.
I took my seat
and looked nervously at the people surrounding the table. No one seemed
interested in returning my glances. A middle-aged woman with auburn hair and
dark eyes looked at the plump gentleman "Are we going…"
The plump
gentleman held up his hand. "We will be conducting most of the meeting
ourselves right now."
"Now, Miss
Bendis, we have asked you here because your sales have been steadily waning.
We've been waiting to see if the situation would right itself, but it has not.
Normally we wouldn't have gone to the trouble of bringing you here. We simply
would have waited out your contract and dismissed you as a writer. However, we
were recently bought out and the new owner asked us to conduct a meeting
instead. He wanted to see if there was something that could be done to help you
with your writing and thus your sales."
"I see. Will
the new owner be attending this meeting?"
"At this
point we are not certain. He was delayed."
"All
right. Well, I'm not certain what to tell you. I've been writing pretty
much the same."
"And that
seems to be the problem. We have all read your work." He motioned around
the table.
"All of
you?" I was blushing, embarrassed because everyone at the table was older
than me. It would be like my parents and grandparents reading my fantasies.
Fantasies and deep dark desires I had put down on paper.
"Yes,
all of us. It is the only way we could get an idea of how and what you
write."
I simply nodded
my head, sank down in my seat, and looked at my notepad on top of the table.
"So you want to release me as a writer from your publishing house?"
The plump
gentleman huffed out a frustrated sigh. "Normally yes. But again, we were recently bought out and the new owner does things
differently, so you are in luck."
"So what do
I need to do?" I looked up hopefully.
"We all
believe your writing reflects the fact that you've never done any of the things
you write about."
"Really? All of you are
members of the Mile High Club?" I blurted out and then felt embarrassed as
I looked around the table when no one spoke up. "Well if you haven't done
it then how do you know what goes on up there?"
A very pretty
middle-aged woman coughed. "I am a member of the Mile High Club, and I
have to tell you that although your writing does give a general idea of the
mechanics and the process, it feels a bit flat, as if you have no idea as to
the feelings and emotions involved in that or any of the other acts."
"Oh."
At first, I felt crushed and started to sag more in my seat. But then I
remembered they were talking about the Maeve before Ryder. This Maeve knew all
too well what goes on in the airplane bathrooms as well as middle management
offices. This Maeve still stood a chance of being a writer—a good writer—a
popular writer. I sat up straighter in my seat and remembered Ryder telling me
he hoped I would retell our
over her cornflakes or medication!
* * * *
I hadn't had a
chance to get anything to eat or drink when people started streaming into the
room and taking seats. All of the seats filled up but two, one at the head of
the table facing the window and one next to it facing the buffet sideboard and
me, with its back to the wall. I stayed right where I was waiting to see who
would fill them up.
"Ahem…"
A short plump elderly man with gray hair was sitting in the other chair beside
the empty head chair. His chair was facing the wall, and he had to turn in order
to see me. "Miss Bendis?"
"Yes…"
That came out sounding more like a question as confidence eluded me.
The plump
gentleman motioned to the empty seat across from his, on the other side of the
head seat. "Please take a seat. We have much to discuss. There will be
plenty of time for refreshments when we are done." Man, he and Miss
Perky-Snot must share the same corn flakes or mental health doctor.
"Yes, of
course." Embarrassment ran through me and I felt my skin burn as a blush
scaled up my neck and devoured my face.
I took my seat
and looked nervously at the people surrounding the table. No one seemed
interested in returning my glances. A middle-aged woman with auburn hair and
dark eyes looked at the plump gentleman "Are we going…"
The plump
gentleman held up his hand. "We will be conducting most of the meeting
ourselves right now."
"Now, Miss
Bendis, we have asked you here because your sales have been steadily waning.
We've been waiting to see if the situation would right itself, but it has not.
Normally we wouldn't have gone to the trouble of bringing you here. We simply
would have waited out your contract and dismissed you as a writer. However, we
were recently bought out and the new owner asked us to conduct a meeting
instead. He wanted to see if there was something that could be done to help you
with your writing and thus your sales."
"I see. Will
the new owner be attending this meeting?"
"At this
point we are not certain. He was delayed."
"All
right. Well, I'm not certain what to tell you. I've been writing pretty
much the same."
"And that
seems to be the problem. We have all read your work." He motioned around
the table.
"All of
you?" I was blushing, embarrassed because everyone at the table was older
than me. It would be like my parents and grandparents reading my fantasies.
Fantasies and deep dark desires I had put down on paper.
"Yes,
all of us. It is the only way we could get an idea of how and what you
write."
I simply nodded
my head, sank down in my seat, and looked at my notepad on top of the table.
"So you want to release me as a writer from your publishing house?"
The plump
gentleman huffed out a frustrated sigh. "Normally yes. But again, we were recently bought out and the new owner does things
differently, so you are in luck."
"So what do
I need to do?" I looked up hopefully.
"We all
believe your writing reflects the fact that you've never done any of the things
you write about."
"Really? All of you are
members of the Mile High Club?" I blurted out and then felt embarrassed as
I looked around the table when no one spoke up. "Well if you haven't done
it then how do you know what goes on up there?"
A very pretty
middle-aged woman coughed. "I am a member of the Mile High Club, and I
have to tell you that although your writing does give a general idea of the
mechanics and the process, it feels a bit flat, as if you have no idea as to
the feelings and emotions involved in that or any of the other acts."
"Oh."
At first, I felt crushed and started to sag more in my seat. But then I
remembered they were talking about the Maeve before Ryder. This Maeve knew all
too well what goes on in the airplane bathrooms as well as middle management
offices. This Maeve still stood a chance of being a writer—a good writer—a
popular writer. I sat up straighter in my seat and remembered Ryder telling me
he hoped I would retell our
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