Chapter One:

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"Writing isn't that easy, you know..."

***

Calm, generic music played over my head. The gentle beep, beep, beep of items passing over the register's scanner clashed with the beat. I looked at the label, turned the can of tuna over, and tried again.

Beep, beep, beep.

I frowned. Poop.

"Well," I looked at the older woman, with her red glasses and blue eye shadow, who waited patiently at my register and shot her an exaggerated smile, "I'll just type it in then."

The woman blinked, adjusting the strap on her handbag. "I don't know why it won't scan," she said, watching as I pressed the numbers into my register. She leaned closer as if it was going to help me.

It wouldn't. I glanced at her. "Sometimes it happens, ma'am," I said as I typed the last four digits. The confirmation beep made the old woman smile. So, I did the same. "Can't trust machines, right?"

"Oh, no we can't," she said as she dug into her bag for her wallet. With a quick zip and flip, she pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. "You know," she glanced at me, "my grandson says they'll take over the world one day."

A small trigger went off in my head. Images of robots and machines took over. Just like that, I was thinking of the cyborgs built in a facility off the coast of California, tucked far, far, far away from everyone. And then poof, a bomb released them into the world. It was the end as we knew it!

"Miss?" The older woman wiggled the bill in my face. I inched back confused. Then I realized, I'd been staring at her money, and not taking it and putting it into the register.

I'd been lost in my thoughts. Again.

"Sorry." Clearing my throat, I gave her an apologetic look and took the money. "I just, you know, I, um—" There wasn't much to explain. I didn't see this woman often, but I'm sure she already made her judgment. There was young woman at the register, daydreaming and not working.

Who daydreams in science fiction?

"Fourteen dollars and twenty-three cents," I muttered.

Me. I'm that girl.

Scooping her change out of my register's till, I handed it over and politely placed it in her hand. Then I gave her the two bags I'd packed with her groceries. Smiling so hard that my cheeks hurt, I nodded. "I hope you have a great day."

With the same awkward forced smile the woman had given me, I watched her walk away from my cashier lane. When she was out of the store, I sighed. Then I mentally beat my scattered, daydreaming brain with an imaginary stick.

This was an everyday thing—looking out the window, staring at a person, hearing a word or phrase, and just thinking of a story. The key word there was thinking.

There was a large part of me that wanted to be a writer. The ideas were in my head, making camp, setting up rooms with beds and blankets without paying rent. I could say they were intrusive because sometimes the thoughts did pull me away from my everyday life, but I didn't see it as a problem.

My issue was... having the thoughts and not being able to put them down on paper. Or a Word document. Or a napkin. Anything. It was like as soon as I had enough to start turning the idea into a story, my brain shut down and said, "Girl, what are you doing?"

At this point, I was doing nothing.

"Hey!" A loud slap yanked me out of my thoughts. I blinked, taken aback. Had I been ignoring a customer again? It was nine in the morning, they should've been scarce, not shopping for groceries.

But as I blinked and focused on who was in front of me, I was relieved to see it wasn't an old woman looking for spam, but Nancy, my work-bestie. Her big grin put a genuine smile on my face.

I pushed a button on my register, so it stayed active. "Morning." Leaning against the conveyor belt, I looked at my friend. Her unnaturally blue eyes shimmered as she bat her lashes. I blinked. "It's Monday, you know," I said.

Nancy pushed one hand into her short, wavy blonde hair and leaned on the belt with me. "I work Mondays."

"I know you do but," I waved my hand and outlined her face and shoulder, "this kind of woke up with a bowl of sugar mood is for a Thursday, at most. Friday for sure. But Monday?"

Nancy sighed. I could've defended my morning grouchiness with what had just happened with my first customer of the day, but I needed to save the awkward story for our lunch break; otherwise, I had nothing to contribute. Nancy was the one filled with stories, weekend adventures. She'd talk about the hot guy she met on the boulevard, how his hands sent her to the moon, and gushed about the morning sex before he left.

Meanwhile, I talked about Francesca Queen of Snooze—my fluffy orange cat. I was single and had been for a while—no hot guy adventures for me. I was too awkward for that.

"Girl, hello." Nancy blinked at me. "Earth to Camila."

I did it again.

"Sorry." Cringing, I pushed away from her and laughed. "But again," I pointed at her, "why are you so happy?"

Nancy, with her wide eyes and high eyebrows, pointed down at her other hand, the one flat on the belt. I blinked before looking down.

There was a sheet of paper under her hand. Upside-down. "I don't know what that is," I said.

"Girl." Nancy acted like I should've seen it, but when we locked eyes and I pointed at the blank side of the paper, she laughed as if she knew. "My bad, just look."

The main entrance chimed for a new customer, but I didn't glance at them or the door. I focused on the paper Nancy lifted and put in my face. I leaned back to read it clearly.

It said: Book contest! Grand prize—three thousand dollars and a publishing contract!

I grinned and took the paper from her to read it better.

"Ma'am?" a customer called from the front of the store. "Could you tell me where the tea is?"

Nancy lifted a hand and pointed behind her. "Aisle three on the right said," she said to the customer. "If you need help, I'll be there in a second!"

I don't know if the customer responded. If he had, I couldn't hear him. My pounding heart settled in my ears. I reread the bottom line of the flyer over, and over, and over again.

It said: "A story submitted to the contest must be full-length, totaling fifty thousand words or more.

I couldn't write that much. Shit, I could barely write at all if I was being honest.

"So?" Nancy came back to her place on my station's belt and giggled. "What do you think? I know you've got a lot of stories you could enter, right? All that reading you do."

I lowered the flyer just enough to look at her. "Writing isn't that easy, you know."

A loud "Ha!" left her as she clapped her hands together and pointed at me with a finger gun. "Right, right, I believe you, but," she pointed at the flyer, "I believe you can do that, too, so."

With a shrug, Nancy walked away, leaving me alone at my register. I looked back at the flyer with a frown. "I don't think I can do this..."

But I need to try.

***

A book contest. A chance at publication. I was my chance to make it happen, I knew it—but my problem was I couldn't. Since I was fifteen, all I wanted to do was write books. But the older I got, the more the reality of becoming an adult set in, I found myself less and less capable of writing a book—forget about finishing one.

On my way home from work, I thought rereading the flyer would help me find motivation. It was there in my face, black and white. It was even bolded!


Complete a story. Submit it to Pioneering Arts. Take a chance at winning our grand prize!

Nancy put the perfect opportunity on my station this morning. I should've been happy. But the requirements written in tiny, tiny font at the bottom stopped that. It was plain and simple:

Submit a completed novel with 50,000 words or more to be considered.

Yeah, it seemed simple. But I was plainer. As in... I didn't have a story to write, I didn't have a computer filled with stories like Nancy thought, and I sure as hell couldn't reach fifty thousand words. That was harder than waking up at 5 AM to stretch and work out. And that was something I could do... if I put my mind to it.

Writing? Sure, I could do that.

Writing after page one or two? That was my struggle.

Holding my breath, I lifted the flyer in my hand as if it would tell me a story to write. It had been my focus for the past fifteen minutes. The smell of diner food—burgers, fries, patty melts, and BLTs—filled the air but it couldn't didn't distract me. The door chime did, and only because no one had come in since I did, and I honestly thought I'd be the only one sitting at the counter for lunch hour. Not that I minded, of course...

Looking towards the entrance, my eyes fell on the Mr. Tall Dark and Handsome librarian who came to sit for dinner every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday. It shouldn't have been something I remembered, but considering I came in every day for snacks I shouldn't buy, I happened to notice the cute guy who always seemed to walk in while I picked up food to end my night.

Dressed in a loose hoodie on a cool evening. It sat on his broad shoulders; a wintery color complementing his dark brown skin. As he approached the counter to order, I stared at him for so long, I flinched when we made eye contact.

My reaction? I squeezed the flyer. It crinkled in my hands.

He looked at me before laughing. "'Sup, French Fries."

French Fries? Was he calling me the food I always ordered? I should have been bothered. The fact that he called me food. Jerk!

But, as I thought about it, I was more focused on the fact that he remembered what I ordered. I never stayed long enough to put my food to memory, it was impressive. It was funny because I remembered his orders, too.

Grinning, I flattened my flyer in front of me. "'Sup, Raspberry lemonade, and onion rings."

His brows lifted. His full lips pulled into a grin. I tried to keep my cool while looking up at him, but he was hot, and I knew it. He knew it, he had to.

Shaking his head, he smiled at the diner's cashier with the same look he gave me seconds ago. To her, he said, "Could I get my usual?"

When she nodded and scribbled what he wanted on a piece of paper, he looked back at me. "Did you order your fries?"

The fact that he didn't think it was weird that I knew his food choices, too, was a good sign. Not that I had been looking for one. I didn't even know his name. "I um," I bit my lip before pushing my wavy hair behind my ears, "I did."

"Cool," he said, nodding.

Cool. As his words settled in the air, it became awkward. Probably just uneasy for me because the second he chose the barstool two stools away; he pulled out his phone. I changed my focus, too, back to the paper I'd partially crumbled in my hand.

The words across the top, the middle, and the bottom screamed at me. In two voices. It was like there were two angels on my shoulder—one was motivating, reminding me I could do this, and the other laughed. The laughing was louder than the motivational whispers. Always was.

"What's that?" The smooth, deep voice of Mr. Raspberry Lemonade caught my attention. Glancing to my left, I saw that he'd leaned closer, just enough for me to hear him. The smile on his face formed dimples on his cheeks.

My stomach flipped. "Um..." I folded the paper into an uneven square. "What's what?"

"That." He pointed at the flyer with his phone. "You keep looking at it, so I'm curious."

Curious. Curious about the paper in my hands.

"Here are your fries, Camila," the cashier said as she returned with the paper bag carrying my greasy fries. She placed it in front of me with a smile. "BBQ sauce is in there, too."

"Oh, thanks." I quickly took my bag and stood up from my stool. Glancing back at Mr. Raspberry Lemonade and his swoon-worthy smile, I was curious as to why he was. "It's just, um, a book contest thing."

"Oh, dope." He tried to look at it, but I pushed it into the side pocket of my bag. "Are you a writer?" he asked.

I wanted to say yes. Every part of me longed to be a writer, craved it; a dream that felt so within reach. But longing and reaching were the opposite of actually doing it. So, I couldn't say yes because I wouldn't count the two paragraphs into a chapter, into a story, that I'd never finish.

Putting my bag of fries in front of me, I gave him my awkward smile. "I try," I said because it was as honest as I could be and that was enough honesty I could give for one night. "But, um," I shook my bag, then pointed at the door, "I gotta get home and eat this. Enjoy your onion rings when it's ready."

"Oh yeah, sure." He stood and scooted his chair back to give me the space to walk by. "Have a good night, French Fries."

As I passed him, I caught a whiff of his cologne and gripped the paper bag a little tighter. I smiled at him before I took another step. "You too, Raspberry Lemonade and Onion Rings."


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