One Star
One Star
By Christopher D. Schmitz
Published by Treeshaker Books
© 2018 by Christopher D. Schmitz
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
PUBLISHED BY TREESHAKER BOOKS
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http://www.authorchristopherdschmitz.com
For those people who leave me bad reviews.
1
The tires momentarily lost traction. An idiot light flashed on the dash panel of Felicia Ward’s automobile and she rode out the sudden sloppiness in the drive pattern of her second-hand vehicle. She grabbed the wheel firmly and refocused on the road despite the distraction of screaming children in the back.
Her heart raced as she corrected out of the fishtail side. Felicia barely spared the breath to curse the wintry northern roads they drove upon. She hissed the barely audible profanity and gripped the wheel with white knuckles.
“Mom said a bad word, Charlie,” Mikey whispered in the backseat. The hushed observation did nothing to console his wailing two year old brother in the neighboring seat.
The warning alert flashed on again to warn Felicia of a severely deflated tire. It often did that in the severe cold temperatures, but she’d need to check it right away when able. Right now she concentrated on biting her tongue.
“Mikey, it’s not so simple,” she tried to argue, not even sure how the five-year-old had heard her. “Sometimes grown-ups use certain words and it’s…” she gave up, concentrating on driving through the pre-Christmas white-out and longing for the warmer conditions of her childhood home in northern Texas. She whispered another curse word at her younger self for falling so thoroughly for a northern boy back in her college days.
“I heard that one, too,” Mikey said in the back.
Felicia barely heard him over the angry, shrieking child in the safety seat. “Tell me about daycare, buddy. Did you do anything fun today? Were there many kids gone because of the storm?”
Suddenly her car spun out and began to slide. Her father’s driving advice suddenly popped into her head. Turn into the skid. Screams erupted in the backseat as she cranked the wheel. Her tires caught ahold of some tread and zoomed straight ahead, under control but on the wrong side of the yellow line.
Felicia’s heart cried a panicked thank-you and then suddenly plummeted when she realized she was driving headlong towards traffic on the other side of the split lane, two-way traffic. She froze when she recognized the flashing amber warning lights and peeling orange paint of a highway snowplow racing straight for her.
One more naughty word fell from her lips. Her last one.
2
Kurtis Ward sighed and rubbed the tension out of his face and glanced out the frosty window that partially concealed a blanket of new snow. He triumphantly chicken-pecked the final two words of his manuscript with his pointer fingers. He typed “The End” and sat back with a wide grin. He’d toiled away on the manuscript version of Black Goat for so long that the sudden finality of completing his project hit him in waves. He felt both accomplishment and a sense of euphoria.
Maybe he’d even crack open a bottle of wine to celebrate later. He hadn’t been much of a drinker ever since his college days.
He leaned back and grinned, thankful for the small block of peace and quiet he’d been able to carve out of a day in order to finish the book. He loved his kids, but they didn’t allow him much time to write.
There was only one person he really wanted to share the triumphant moment with. His wife had been a constant source of encouragement for his writing, even a source for the original urban legend he’d loosely based the paranormal thriller off of—a stubborn myth that just never seemed to die, no matter how incredulous it was.
His phone rested atop a stack of handwritten notes, outlines, and other details he’d drawn up as a guide for his book; Kurtis always preferred to handwrite those things and use his computer for writing the actual novel. He reached for his mobile phone to call her even as it began ringing.
Kurtis smiled when he saw the name on screen as his caller ID registered it as her number. “I was just about to call you,” he said as he excitedly thumbed the answer button. “I finished it! Can you believe it?”
A measured pause met him. A man’s voice.
“Is this Mister Ward?”
“Yes… how did you get the phone you’re calling from?” Panic lodged in the pit of his gut.
“Are you the spouse of Felicia Ward?”
“Did my wife leave her phone someplace again?” Hope riddled his voice; he silently pleaded for some sort of weird circumstances. Anything was better than the scenarios that began invading the author’s wildest imaginings and running rampant.
Please. Please…
“I’m sorry, Mister Ward. My name is Officer Jones. I’m going to ask you to come quickly. There’s been an accident.”
3
Mark Feeny giggled as he leaned over the register counter of the bookstore where he worked and tapped the last few words into his latest masterpiece. He could feel the nearby person’s presence, but he paid them no attention and hoped that they might move on their way. When the customer finally caught his eye and beckoned for assistance with her raised brows, he held up one finger to demand another few moments to look over the book review he’d just finished writing. Satisfied that it was free from basic errors he clicked the button and let the damning Amazon review go live. His nearby customer cleared her throat to get his attention.
He kept his finger up, rolled his eyes, and still refused to make eye contact while he quickly copied and pasted his epic diatribe to the book’s major reselling outlets and review pages. Finally satisfied he closed his personal laptop and met the customers gaze. He was in his crummy nine to five, however, in his mind he imagined attending a Third-Reich style book burning for the title he’d just flamed via the internet.
Another woman lined up for help behind this one. Feeny sighed as if helping customers was beneath him. He slid off of his stool and walked away from the counter. The faded hardwoods creaked beneath his girth.
His first customer was pretty and young; Feeny eyed her lasciviously and wished that he might have looked up sooner before the next customer had arrived to take up his time. The pretty one dressed like she might have daddy issues or other baggage that could make her attainable if he played things right. He tossed his unkempt ponytail behind his head and smiled as if he welcomed her to leer back in response as he stepped around the register area and stroked his neckbeard. Dorito crumbs fell out, but he was pretty sure only he noticed.
She curled her lip apprehensively as she recognized the unwelcome letch. The girl crossed her arms and shifted her posture.
Feeny recognized her body language and asked flatly, “What do you need?”
“All my friends keep saying ‘The books are better than the movies’ for so many of them. Do you have Twilight? I haven’t been able to find it on your shelf.”
Feeny snorted. “Yeah. It’s in the employee restroom. But I used most of the pages already to wipe. Why on Earth would you waste your time with that drivel? Stephanie Meyers is a hac
k. You need to read something worth your time.”
“But I already know what I want.”
“James Joyce,” Feeny kept pushing. “Everyone needs more Joyce in their life.” Without letting her get a word in edgewise he scurried around the counter and snatched a hardcover copy of Finnegan’s Wake from the short stack he kept there. He hurried back and thrust it into her hands. “This is an absolute must-read…” he fished for a name.
“Heather,” she said uncertainly, as if she might’ve just made that name up as a cover.
“Great. Heather. This is the book you want to read.” He thrust it into her hands.
She held the book as if it felt gross to her touch. “But I already know what I like. I want to buy Twilight—and the second book, too, if you have it.”
Feeny snorted again, this time he clearly let his derision come through—and more for her than for the author. “Vampires and werewolves,” he scoffed. “No. That’s childhood drivel. You’d be better off reading something printed by a monkey with a typewriter.”
Heather seemed confused and didn’t understand why she couldn’t get what she wanted. “But my friend said she bought her copy here.”
He was just opening his mouth to respond when Tim, the manager, stepped out from between the aisles and interrupted.
“Excuse me, miss? I know we always keep a copy of popular books around. I’ll take you to it.” As Tim pointed the way down the aisle he shot Feeny with a dangerous glance before turning to follow the girl towards the fiction section. Tim nodded at the next customer like a mother silently warning an unruly child to behave—or else.
Heather set down the copy of Finnegan’s Wake as she left the check-out area.
Huffing like a pouting child Feeny asked, “How can I help you?”
The woman likewise crossed her arms and glared at the clerk, but she maintained an air of both patience and authority. “That was a rather unkind recommendation,” she scolded. “It’s a bit presumptive to push one of the most difficult books in our language on a seventeen year old.” The eyebrow she raised subtly indicated that she’d also noticed his lascivious gaze at the teen.
Mark Feeny only glowered in response at the forty-something. “Like you know how old she is,” he rebuffed. “Besides, Joyce is the only author worth reading.”
She shook her head and sighed condescendingly. “I’m her Language Arts teacher in High School and have a Master’s Degree in English Literature. She’s a Junior. I’m just glad she’s reading. And Joyce, for all his artistic strengths, is an author I would never choose to read unless it was forced upon me under heavy penalty.”
Feeny held his hands up in surrender. “And what do you need, then? I’m sure we’ve got some Jane Austen on hand if you follow Tim towards the back.” He returned to the register.
She let the snide remark go. “I need you to order a novel for me. It’s called Black Goat; a husband of my… friend… wrote it and I promised to purchase a copy and read it sometime, even if Austen is more my speed. The author is… he’s going through a hard time right now.”
The portly salesman clicked away on his computer. “It’s an indie book,” he wheezed snobbishly. “It’ll take a week and you’ll have to prepay. We don’t order indie authors otherwise. Nobody reads them and we can’t return them,” he explained as he pulled up the book’s listing on Amazon and noted that it was currently available as a free digital giveaway. If the woman had an E-reader, tablet, or smartphone she could have it immediately and at no cost. Feeny wasn’t about mention that fact to the abusive woman—even if it meant he’d have to suffer her presence at least once more in the future.
“That’s fine,” she said while handing over a crisp twenty dollar bill. “I’ll prepay.”
He rang in her order and handed back her change and a receipt. “Come back in ten days. It should be in by then.”
Feeny watched her leave and then sneered at the closing door. He immediately called up the website on his laptop and clicked to order the free book and set it to download to his tablet. Black Goat sprang to the top of his hit-list and negative reviews always carried so much more weight when they were tagged as verified purchases—even free book downloads counted for that. He scrolled the list of books in his queue and smiled at his lengthy trail of reviews and ratings.
At the top of his list Finnegan’s Wake proudly displayed five stars and a glowing recommendation which pulled heavily from Wikipedia references. Below that entry languished a litany of sorry books; hundreds of one star reviews. Even just a quick scan of the high volume of barbs he’d thrown out there gave him a sort of perverse glee. Feeny was an assassin of indie books and relished tearing down writers who he felt had no place in the business.
“Mark.” Tim beckoned the employee over, waving him across the store with a curling finger.
Mark Feeny hustled across the sales floor to meet his boss who’d already begun moving down the aisles. He resented Tim with every fiber of his being—partly because he was the owner’s nephew and Feeny felt passed over for the role, but mostly because Tim was fresh out of college and was his junior by several years.
He finally caught up to Tim in the fiction section of Harbaugh’s Book Sellers; they were a small, mom and pop style bookstore. It had three stores in the area, but this was the original location and Mark had been employed here for a long time. Red faced and wheezing for air he leaned up against the nearest shelf unit.
“Mark, what’s wrong with this picture?”
He shrugged, still panting too hard to come up with a verbal answer even if he had one.
“Do you see any Stephanie Meyers on the shelf?”
Feeny scowled. He answered like a hostile witness facing a prosecutor. “No.”
Tim pulled aside a stack of books facing spine-out as they were meant to be. There, hidden flat sided and squished behind them were the store’s copies of several popular titles including Stephanie Meyers, E.L. James, and Suzanne Collins. He fumed like a disappointed parent confronting a lying child. “Guess what I found. I’m only going to say this once. Knock this crap off. Now fix it.”
He turned to leave Feeny to his orders but turned around to say, “And for God’s sake, man. Eat a vegetable before you have a heart attack.”
As soon as Tim turned his back for good Feeny flicked him off and then began grudgingly restocking his most-hated titles.
4
Kurtis Ward scrolled down with his mouse wheel. His lips wordlessly mouthed the passionately worded rant against his book. The hateful words turned his heart slowly cold and stony like nothing else ever could. One star. The horrible review didn’t seem to quit; it stretched for paragraphs and paragraphs.
If I could give this book fewer than one star I’d give it. I honestly couldn’t get past the first couple pages. I scanned ahead only to know enough to write this review... Anyone who writes about a search for mythical creatures is a buffoon and one of the things on a growing list of what is wrong with our culture.
Ironically, Kurtis had to scan down several sections, glossing over detailed descriptions of the reviewers desire to defecate on the paperback version but would hate to purchase a copy to do so and further line the pocket of the author for that pleasure and indicated that his blank toilet paper provided a more entertaining story. Kurtis recognized further irony in that MackdaddyFeeny06 posted an attack longer in length than what he’d claimed to have read.
He scanned past the nasty and unfounded attacks on his writing style—something he’d worked on for years and ultimately received compliments over after attending several writing seminars. Felicia had paid for his most recent trip as a birthday present for him. Kurtis glossed over the unfounded hate and dropped to the last couple paragraphs.
Black Goat is, without a doubt, the worst book I’ve ever experienced as a book reseller and that’s saying a lot. Honestly, if I was a family member of Kurtis Ward I would consider killing myself as soon as possible. I’m sure if you
married this man you must have lost a bet in some third world country.
I suggest you all get some culture and pick up some James Joyce. Don’t torment yourself with this god-awful waste of paper and please help save the future of literature: if Mr. Ward is your village’s idiot, please don’t let this man write… or breed… I beg you, don’t let him have children. Future generations will thank you. It would be more merciful to abort your child than let him adopt.
Just say no.
Kurtis looked over the photo on his desk. Beneath the glass frame Felicia hugged Mikey and little Charlie. He bit his lip angrily as he reread the entirety of the unjust review. Still biting his lip he shook with rage that he tried to hold in. His brave face drew a trickle of blood that leaked down his chin.
Standing and cursing his own stupidity, Kurtis pressed his finger to the wound and tried to stop the bleeding. He instinctively called out for a wash cloth to clean up. “Felicia?”
His words echoed back through the empty house.
She was gone and he hadn’t quite learned what that meant yet.
Kurtis hung his head. He didn’t know how he’d forgotten so quickly. With only the glow of his laptop screen to light the room the author cursed his luck and cursed MackdaddyFeeny06. He poured himself a tall glass of whiskey.
“Everyone gets bad reviews,” he spoke aloud as he stared at his book’s listing. It was his one and only online review. He clicked onto a few other sales sites and found it had been copied to those places as well.
Choking back the whiskey he tried to drown the ragged, fraying edges of his emotions with triple distilled numbness. The words kept replaying in his mind. Over and over. I would consider killing myself as soon as possible… don’t let him have children.
He poured another glass in the dark of his empty house and reread the review in its entirety, mentally arguing with the words on the screen. He poured another and realized he’d actually spoken those arguments aloud, although they came out only in slurred phrases similar to his intended speech.
One Star Page 1
