Thanks so much for submitting to Tor.com, and for your patience while
we evaluated your story. Unfortunately, I'm afraid that "Owed to the
Toothpick Counters" isn't quite right for us. I wish you the best of
luck placing it elsewhere.
Please send us more of your stories in the future.
Best,
Tor.com Submissions Staff
 |
| Interesting fact; A box like this became the basis for 'Owed to the Toothpick Counters' |
No doubt about it, the worst part of writing is actually (besides the i should be writing instead of watching reality tv guilt, the just before you start writing feeling of misplaced optimism, the how do i start this off feeling of inadequacy, the how does this end feeling of inadequate closure and finally the let's put this out there and start my path to the Pulitzter sense of hesitation), finally getting a response about your writing from an actual 'pays $$' publisher that says 'thanks, but no thanks'.
It hurts. It always does. I've been riding a bit of a high lately; having a job that allows me a good 2-3 hours a night of downtime which gives me some time to write and edit a couple of my own blogs plus finding a website that has been pretty lax on submission requirements. Whatculture has given me some much-needed confidence in writing and although i am not yet at that agent-represented place in my writing career as most would like to be, it's still a bit of a thrill to see that i now have been read by more people in my hometown.
Plus, my article on Tom Jones seemed to has gone somewhat 'viral' in my humble opinion, (3400 likes) topping my previous personal best article/essay about Arrested Development over at popmatters.com of approximately 800 facebook likes at it's peak (i'm not sure why it's now saying 17...but oh, well).
So, i've started off this non-profit blog as part ego and part...well, more ego. It's going to be a collection of short stories and rejection letters that i will have received in the coming years.
First, up top is the rejection of 'Owed to the Toothpick Counters' which is one of my personal favourites. Written nearly 10 years ago when i was working another job, spinning my wheels and feeling that I had accomplished all that i was going to accomplish there and had nothing left to do but warn new recruits to be prepared to have their individualistic identities crushed through name tags and homogenized corporate culture events.
Enjoy the short read (or not) after the break. Feel free to add criticisms and comments as to why this may not have worked for publishers or even better, where it might work.
For my fellow writers, if you wish to add some of your own personal rejections, feelings, short stories, just fwd them to me and we can share in our ... growing pains/misery together.
Owed to The Toothpick
Counters
-Jay Royston (1866 words)
“Nine hundred ninety eight, nine
hundred ninety nine, one thousand.”
Terrence folded the ends of the
tinier than small toothpick box and put it into a bigger box full of the little
boxes of toothpicks. He took a deep
breath and held it in, as he often did, willing his body to refuse to do it’s
natural functions. As his body failed him once again by exhaling, he wished
again for something or someone to put him out of this daily misery.
He glanced out onto the floor of
the toothpick factory, where a Representative of Management was leading another
overwhelmed product of the once public education system on a tour of the
facilities. The boy was obviously just out of high school, displaying just
enough facial hair to give him the appearance of puberty, but not enough to
give him the appearance of manhood. The Representative of Management, this time
a pretty woman with her brunette hair pulled tightly back into a bun and
speared with bio-degradable chopsticks was giving the tour, smiling and
laughing with everyone she introduced the new boy to, oblivious that none were
returning her smile in any other way than what they had all been taught in
Obedience School.
Terrence had been one of the first
to graduate from the new corporately funded Public Obedience and Education
System, and although he still had faint wisps of memories of early teachers in
the outdated grade schools telling him that he could be anything he wanted to
be when he grew up, the new POE System had efficiently erased most of their
teachings. The first Placement Evaluation tests had quickly relieved him of the
fear and responsibilities he may have had to cope with in the old world, just
as the marketing/waiver form his parents had signed said it would.
His test scores indicated that he
would most benefit society by giving him the title of Wooden Toothpick Quality
Assurance Control Engineer for the fabulous, environmentally friendly company
of EFG Wood Products and Electricity, who proudly boasted of cutting down only
2 trees a year for their toothpick division.
Recently, another Representative of
Management at the weekly Mandatory Staff Goal Realization and Affirmation
Meeting had recited a memorized propaganda memo that was circulating amongst
the divisions of EFG that it was looking at doubling that number if third and
fourth quarter quotas were met. If their $77 million ad campaign for
mini-appetizers met sales goals that would mean “more hours for everyone!” he
had enthusiastically exclaimed.
Terrence hated his job on the
toothpick line although they had tried to convince him that that he was only
unhappy because his LifeWife had run off with a POE evaluated future star
athlete who had yet to turn fourteen and not because he put 1000 toothpicks
repeatedly in tiny boxes as his contribution to the evolution of
civilization.
Terrence once believed that the Public
Obedience and Education system had a lot of serious flaws in it’s testing but
he had been adequately trained to doubt his own beliefs, and was held as a
shining example of why the POE system was the future of education.
The woman with chopsticks in her
hair moved up to Terrence and introduced him to the new guy.
“Terrence, this is Toast. Toast,
this is Terence. Terrence is an excellent worker; nobody has better quality
reports on this floor than Terrence. You watch him and pay attention, soon you
might be as good as him.”
Her com-phone alarm went off,
reminding her of her 10 am weekly visit from one of the higher ups that helped
to keep her firmly entrenched in her role. The introduction became more of a
dropping off.
While Terrence stared blankly at
her (he was very, very good at staring blankly at someone) she explained that
she had other more important things to do, to maintain operational efficiency
in the EFG Toothpick Division, very important things. She clarified again that
they were important things that Terrence never needed to worry about because
that was not his job. That was her job and had been her job ever since his
first day at work, over 4 years ago now. 1286 days and counting. Terrence
calculated that there were only 49 435 more before he was allowed to leave the
workforce, that is if automation didn’t move him out earlier. Automation was a
hope and dream whispered amongst the others those few moments that they walk
out the doors to the public transport waiting to take them home, or where ever
it was the others went to at night after the work whistle signaled the end of
another day of profitability and toothpick counting.
Before she left, the Representative
of Management woman smiled her pretty smile, batted her eyelashes and asked how
Terrence was doing, the glance down at his name tag barely noticeable. But he
knew. Just like he knew that her parents had pleaded upon her behalf to the POE
District Representative (who happened to be a distant cousin of her mother’s)
to not put her in the sex trade industry, as had happened with most of the
girls that Terrence had grown up with. Some of their names were still etched in
his memories, names and faces and feelings that were no longer part of him- all
but gone after Graduation. The woman’s parents had pulled old world favours and
got her into a management position with only minimal sex trade work involved on
weekends.
She walked away without waiting for
an answer as to Terrence’s well-being, happy that she had completed this small
task to the best of her ability, which mainly involved delegating it to
somebody else.
Terrence looked at the new graduate
with the exact opposite of what would be called fascinated curiosity. The kid
looked nervous… aware that this moment was what all the years of Public
Obedience and Education Schools and
their Placement Tests had led him to. He was about to become a productive
member of society and it was up to Terrence to relieve him of this pre-career
virginity and tell him what he was born to do.
“You take one of these toothpicks”
he said, picking up one tiny sliver of wood from the pile in front of him, “and
put it in this little box here.”
He put the tiny wooden sliver into
an empty tiny box that he pulled from a nicely stacked pile to the right of
him,
“Then you count ‘ONE’ and then you
do it again until you reach 1000. Then you put this box into that bigger box
until it is full. Then you put it on the belt and it goes through that hole,
where someone closes the box on the other side.”
Terrence cocked his head at Toast,
in emulation of Toast also doing the same to Terrence. A look passed between them that lasted no
more than a few seconds, but also encased a lifetime. Toast’s virginity to life’s
possibilities was now gone. The last vestige of all the hope and dreams that he
had been born with was about to disappear forever and Terrence was there to observe
it go. He watched the kid’s eyes, knowing that was where the realization first
appeared. Then it would flow down his face, down into his shoulders and then
the whole body would deflate into a big pile of soft human clay.
Terrence picked up another
toothpick, put it in the little box, stared Toast square in the eye and said “TWO.”
Toast looked back at the way the
brunette woman had gone, out towards the door that was marked IN CASE OF EMERGENCY
ONLY. Terrence followed his gaze to the door. He blinked, curious as to only one
thing about this new kid.
“Why are you called Toast?” he
asked.
“My Dad was a comedian in the Old
World. He used to enjoy it when he introduced me as Toast.”
He looked from Terrence to the pile
of anarchic toothpicks to the empty little box back to Terrence.
“He would say all straight; ‘because
that is what his whole generation is, Toast!’
Then he would usually laugh. Sometimes, he would laugh until he cried.”
Toast glanced again back to the
EMERGENCY DOOR ONLY.
“Usually the people would smile
then leave rather uncomfortably after Dad continued to cry. He would shout to
them as they would walk away ‘It’s true! It’s true!’ before he would wipe his
eyes, take my hand and then start to laugh again, but more of an inside laugh. My
Dad was funny that way.”
Toast looked from Terrence to the
pile of small boxes, all filled with 1000 toothpicks each. “You know, I never really got that joke until
just now.”
Toast’s look of naïve innocence had
been replaced by one of brash cynicism. As he spoke it was slow and deliberate.
It was the voice of a young man who was becoming very, very mad at the system
that had decided this was the best place for him in this Brave New World. He
had the voice of another person who would be lost into the Social Works systems
that had been set up in the Big City Sewers, to take care of those that weren’t
fortunate enough to have a suitable job skill to help civilization move forward
Terrence picked up a third
toothpick, held it up in front of Toast, held it up long enough for the two of
them to admire it’s many dimensions, both physical and mental. He put it in
Toast’s open palm, closed Toast’s fingers around it. Looked at him very sadly;
a 90 year old man trapped in a 29 year old body.
“Three,” he whispered, grabbing
Toast by the shoulder and turning him around so that he faced the emergency
only door. He gave him a soft push in that direction.
Toast bolted for the door and
somewhere a supervisor watching some secret camera pushed a button and a siren
went off. Toast kept running and hit the door full steam ahead, leaving nothing
but a silhouette of a memory against the bright daylight that streamed in. He
was gone, gone in a blaze of light that beckoned of other things. Just as
quickly, the door slammed shut, but the sirens continued. Finally, they were
silenced. Toast was gone. For good. Everyone
returned their attentions to their duties. Things went back to normal. Terrence
returned to counting.
He worried briefly about the repercussions
and what the brunette woman would say to him when it was discovered that there
was one toothpick missing from the small box sitting in front of him. He
struggled to decide if he should report the missing toothpick as being stolen,
which would definitely bring down his quality report grade on his weekly
Assessment, or leave it as is, to keep a happy memory that somewhere out past
that blaze of light one toothpick of his is out having the adventure of a
lifetime.
That makes four this month, he
thought. He took another deep breath and held it in, wishing, until-
End
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