Optimistically Cynical: A Short Story Compilation- 1

STOLEN IDEAS

I'm sitting at my desk, watching the door. I'm waiting for someone, who I know is coming. I stare at the door. It is perfectly still. I'm running out of patience. I know I should just probably count my blessings on this one, but I can't. It just doesn't sit right.

I feel as though I'm sitting on top of a mountain of gold, waiting for it to crumble beneath me. I know there's only one thing I can do to make myself feel better. I step out of my home office and slide into my brand new car. It smells nice. Well, I have a long drive ahead of me, so I guess I'll fill you in on the details.

I used to have a good friend. I say used to, because I doubt he is anymore. Not after what I have done. Anyway, we used to spend a lot of time together. It was fun, but he did bore me. You see, he would go on and on about these silly little stories. And while he was very emphatic about them, me, I couldn't care less.

I was at my dead end job, wishing I had a bullet to put me out my misery, when I heard some of my co-workers talking. Apparently, there was a local publishing firm that was holding a contest.

Anyone who brought in a short story, that they published, would receive one hundred dollars. That was a lot of money for me back in those days, especially considering my entire paychecks were already spent, before I even got a hold of them.

Well, as you might have guessed, I started to cozy up to my friend, as I listened to him go on and on, while I steered our conversations toward his stories, which was not difficult since he loved to talk about them. Only problem is, he had so many, and he was adding more all the time. To top it off he would always ask for my opinion.

I'd dance about the point offering the basest of explanations and finish by telling him, that he should get published. I still don't know why, I never just told him to shut up. Maybe, it was because we were good friends and had it not been for my expensive tastes, we might still be.

Getting back to the story, I visited my friend, and while I was there, I asked him to make us some snacks, as I had brought a movie we both wanted to see. He went to the kitchen and I scrambled for his room.

His computer was on, it usually is and it's never locked, nor are any of his files encrypted. He's always too trusting. Or am I just saying that to help justify my own actions?

No matter, I snuck inside and pulled out the flash drive from my pocket. I found the files where he kept all his stories, and copied it. It didn't take long. When I was finished, I sat back down on the living room couch, and waited for my friend to be done in the kitchen.

He soon came in, with two platters. One, with hot wings, the other with honey barbeque, his favorite. I didn't touch a single wing, nor did I enjoy any of the movie. I felt as though I had just stabbed him in the back, and he was only being nice to me, on principle.

I excused myself, before even half the movie was over, said I had a stomach ache. Something I ate. Yeah, like a nice steaming plate of screw your friend over. Anyway, part of my anxiety was wanting to see the deed done, so that I might at least see if all this trouble was really worth it.

I skipped work the next day, and instead, went to see the publisher. I gave them a printed copy of one of the stories that I had picked at random. After which, they dismissed me. For the next two days I did nothing. I didn't even answer my phone if it wasn't the publisher.

On the third day they called me. I was there faster then I have ever been anywhere I was supposed to be. I sat down with one of the editors.

He congratulated me, paid me the hundred and then he got serious. He told me the story was good, but it needed some changes, if they were going to publish it.