[Insert Title Here] Volume 100

The Fiction We Tell Ourselves (Reimagined) - IV

“How’s the sleep, you noggin?”

The hovering Robert stared down at his partner in amusement.

Albert rubs his eyes. He had a pool of drool beside his face. “Could be better, but I’ve… already had worse.”

“Good to hear,” he said.

Robert stands up and follows his typical morning routine. Preparing toast, brushing his teeth, and other usual stuff. After going to the notions, he finds that he’s still in the same position as before. A few pats on the cheek ought to wake him up.

“D-do I smell… toast?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Great. Give me some.”

“Make your own, lazy ass.”

Groaning, Albert reluctantly rises and goes to clean himself up. Over the counter, Robert calls, “We’re going to warm you up for writing, and at the same time, make the masterpiece. You need a little smoothening around the edges, like your pacing, and character dialogue.”

“For what?” Albert said.

“Because those are your setbacks, and we can fix them to complement your bread-and-butter, the visualization,” Robert said.

“And how exactly are we going to encode the piece at the same time?”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll carry the brunt of the first half, with me doing everything plot-wise. You’ll handle the rewrites of certain scenes.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Albert sips from his coffee. “So, where do we start?”


Since that day, the weeks onward were full of busy exploits. More of Albert’s time was consumed with practice, trying his best to reach Robert’s standards. Robert kept to his job and worked hard at his desk, following up on Albert every now and then, before continuing the piece.

During this time, Robert made a contact with a growing gazette’s Digest, and submitted Albert as one of their writers. He prompted his partner to improve himself by submitting weekly stories to be published. He also recommended his skills at sketching, so he also has a gig in cover art and advertising. By the end of summer, he already had enough stories for a small anthology.

For this, he was able to start earning money again. Robert taught him responsible saving. Slowly but steadily he grew in ability and wealth. Meanwhile, Albert did his part by keeping Robert writing, through words or through motivational posters he posts in his room when he’s not around.

After a couple of months, when the piece was already two-thirds complete, Robert said to Albert, “Tomorrow is the writers’ meet. We’ll be going to the venue to advertise our completed works and increase the hype for our endeavoured piece, which will release in the week before Christmas.”
“You think they would appreciate our collaboration?”

“Either they don’t know what to make of it, or they’ll be optimistic about it,” Robert said. “Some people like rising talent, you know.”

“Well that is damn good to hear,” Albert says, before returning to his tablet.


There are more people than I expected. Albert observes the crowd of people before him and Robert. They haven’t emerged from the stage yet but he already counted three hundred people in the front-most area alone.

“How are there so many people attending?” Albert asked.

“Isn’t that what normally happens at a writer’s meet?” Robert retorted. “Haven’t you done this before?”

“Um, no actually,” he said. “I don’t like dealing with people, so I leave all this stuff to my publisher.”

“No wonder your dialogue was stiff…”

“What was that?”

“Oh nothing, really.” Robert said.

“I think I drank too much before coming here…”

“C’mon! We’re about to start as well!”

“I’ll be quick! Just cover for me, alright?”

“Fine,” Robert said. And with that, he runs to the nearest restroom.

Robert appears before the audience and apologizes on behalf of his colleague, who’s currently relieving himself. He launches into a speech about his work and Albert’s, but the crowd is mostly emulated with the books Robert is representing.

Meanwhile, Albert had just emerged from the restroom when he notices the bookstore. He finds his anthology amongst the new releases table, surrounded by many other books by other authors, including Robert. He smiles inside, telling himself that soon he’ll be basking in success.

When he inclines his head, he catches a mother and son looking at the next rack beside him. “Which one should I get, mum?” the kid asked.

“You know, there’s this book over here,” the mother picks up a book that previously stayed low between the lesser known titles. Albert gasps, when he recognizes it as one of his books too, Light as a Feather.

“Is this a good one, mum?” the boy inquires once more.

“I’ve heard that it has some of the best descriptions of sceneries you’ve ever seen.”

“That sounds incredible,” the kid said. Suddenly he swivels to Albert and asks, “Mister, do you think this is a good book?”

Albert was stunned for a moment. But he said, “Um, yeah. It’s a good one, I suppose.”

“Okay then,” he replies. The mother smiles apologetically as she leads her son to the cashier. Then he recalls the reason for coming here, and hurried back to the stage.

Robert was already wrapping up his speech when Albert springs in. He notices and quickly introduces Albert to the crowd. “He was the one who approached me and got me on board with the project in the first place.”

He passes the microphone to Albert. He goes on a bit about where he comes from and how his career is going. He tells the rapt crowd about his books and boasts about his visual technique. At the end, Robert comes out, to several cheers, and they both bow together.


“That was loads of fun,” Albert said as he ascends the stairs of their apartment.

“Of course it was,” Robert says nonchalantly. “At the end of the day, a successful writer’s meet is always energizing.”

“And,” slamming Robert’s back with his palm, “we’re getting close to completing it. Just twelve weeks to go.”

Robert winces at the pain in his back, but he nods. “Well and good. Want to do a few more pages tonight?”

Albert grins fiercely. “Oh, you can count on it!”


“Hey Robert! Look at this!” Albert yelled.
He rushes over to Robert’s desk, newspaper in hand, and excitedly points out the article saying, Book Made by Collaborating Authors Most Anticipated Book of Winter. “It says quite a lot about you, mate. Your books, your portfolio…”

“That’s good to hear,” Robert says dismissively.

“It didn’t include a lot about me though… but then again this will be my debut book anyway, so I guess I don’t mind!” Albert takes the newspaper and jubilantly strides back to the living room.


Robert sits down on the couch, enjoying a quick cup. Albert walks in, with many more newspapers in hand. “This is so exciting! Every nine days or so, there’s an article about the piece. I cannot believe it!”

“Mm, I’ve seen some of them myself…”

“Also,” Albert said in the same pitch, albeit with a slightly cooler tone, “There are some articles mentioning a book you’ve wrote… I thought you said you’d devote yourself to this masterpiece.”

Robert tenses up. “I-I never said—well actually, that was one of my pending books. I already had one… um, waiting to be published. I made it during the months before you moved in so…”

“Hmm...” Albert leans over the couch. He is above and beside Robert’s ear. “I think that, if it brings more hype, I guess I don’t mind…”

He pats a hand on his shoulders before standing and leaving the room. Robert sits in silence for several moments.

As you should, Robert remarks.

___

It’s the last week before publication. Albert has been waiting for this day. The effort that he put in is about to bear fruit soon. He is going to rise.

But despite all the anticipation, nobody tried sending him a letter of encouragement. While Robert gets plenty every week, he gets none. And suffice to say, every article talking about their book is starting to feature Robert more than ever. As if he was the sole author…

“How come I haven’t been noticed? I can’t comprehend that I’m not getting any coverage at all! I’ve even published my anthology, yet how come it hasn’t become a hit yet?”

Robert’s door is open. He doesn’t turn from his desk, but he said, “I dunno mate… it was an incredible work after all. I can’t see why the talk about you suddenly got quiet.”

Something about Robert’s lack of concern irritates him. He reaches for his gloves and puts them on. He walks over to Robert’s doorway.

“I’m going out for a while.” He announces without expecting an answer. “I’m… going out.” He takes his scarf and exits.

Outside, the winter seems gloomier than cheery. It’s supposed to be a holiday season. The street is white with snow, but it doesn’t give you the urge to make snowmen or snow angels. In fact, it feels emancipated and ghastly, if snow can even be such. Albert takes a stroll through the town square. There are hardly any people here too. A few shopkeepers, a worker shoveling snow, but no one is doing business. Is there some special thing happening in everyone’s homes that they’d rather stay in?

After calming down and realized he had nothing to do, Albert looked for the bookstore. It was closed because no one was around, but the books in the window are all there, and there’s nothing outwardly—

What… in God’s name…

In the window were the recently released books. Every new publish would appear here. But Albert’s anthology isn’t there anymore, even though it only came out several months ago. Instead, all the other books there—wait, the name tag on the bottom, it only had…

Albert gasps. He hurried back to his apartment. But waiting for him there were policemen and several distressed tenants. The sirens of the cars are silent yet bright, in their red and blue pattern they lit up the snowy plains. A man in a trench coat breaks up from a group of policemen and approaches Albert. “Excuse me sir, I’m an investigator. If you may spare a moment of your time?” His polite yet serious tone made Albert wary.

“What… what happened here…?”

“Mister Robert Fleischer was found dead in his apartment room this morning. A neighbouring tenant complained about mister Fleischer not emerging from his room, and was surprised to see that his door was unlocked. When she went inside, mister Fleischer lay on the ground in a pool of blood.”

Albert’s shock was palpable. He was killed by someone?

The investigator continued. “Evidence shows that mister Fleischer suffered from a stab wound to the back of his neck, which paralysed him and subsequently killed him. The assailant’s weapon was a newly bought letter opener, which only had Fleischer’s fingerprints.”

“Investigation saw that a cabinet allotted to his flatmate was open. Inside of it were gloves. We presume the assailant used gloves in attempt to keep their fingerprints off the letter opener. What’s more, is that according to witness accounts, his supposed flatmate left the building with a dark look on his face, and matching it up with the recorded time of death, it was five minutes after the flatmate left.”

“Wait, sir. When I left Robert in that building, he was busy at his desk.”

“Meanwhile, on his desk,” the man ignores him, “Mister Fleischer was presumed to be writing in his diary at this time.” Albert flinches a bit when the investigator moved closer. “Among his entries were stories of dread and worry of mister Fleischer about his flatmate. Every so often he mentions how demanding his partner was over their pending book.”

The man looks Albert in the eyes, no emotion registering on his face. “Sir, do you know who killed mister Fleischer…?”

“I-I didn’t k-know about a-any of this. Are you implying I killed him?!”

“No…” the man said. “I’m confirming it. Albert Lingo, you are under arrest for killing mister Fleischer. You are to be detained and tried for homicide.”

This cannot be happening…

I can’t believe it…

Is this the end…?