“The Consequence of Being Human”

Madalynn Wight / “The Consequence of Being Human” / Second Place / Undergraduate Art

out a solid ending to the series, Jack should have no trouble doing the same. So why was he? What was so wrong with him that he couldn’t finish his own work as well as a damn fan fiction writer? A damn fanboy? Jack was angry, but mostly, he was shocked. How, how, how?

The next week and a half were a blur. Jack desperately tried to finish his story, writing ending after ending. But as he read over each attempt, it became obvious that all of them were just too similar to the one Kevin Carlson had come up with. The writer’s block was gone now, but it was replaced by something worse. Jack had ideas, but they were not his own. He could think of nothing that did not come across as a direct rip-off of the fan fiction he had read.

“You are a great writer, Jack Hascolm.”

This was a problem Jack had never encountered before. He had always been original in his writing. Professors and peers had praised him for his unique ideas in college, and his writing career stemmed from doing things no one else had before. He had never had any temptations to play off of another author. And yet here he was, only able to, at best, take inspiration from the work of a nobody, and at worst, straight up plagiarize him.

“You are a great writer, Jack Hascolm.”

Nightmares filled the few hours Jack allowed himself to sleep each night. He saw himself delivering a large book to Ben Gains. Gains would throw the book back at him every night. He would laugh and grow larger. Jack would shrink and Ben would grow, towering over the author like Goliath. “Deus Ex Machina!” the giant Ben would roar with delight. “Can’t you tell that, you sorry ass? Deus Ex Machina! Your endings suck! They always suck! You hack!”

“No!” Jack would scream. “I’m not a hack. I’m an author! That’s what I am . . .” Ben’s evil laugh drowned out Jack’s objections.

“You are a great writer, Jack Hascolm.” Jack said it in the mornings after the nightmares woke him. He said it as he sat down to write. He said it at every new chapter. Then at every new page. He repeated it as each draft failed. He said it until “great writer” and “Jack Hascolm” became the same thing.

Days passed. Jack felt his frustration grow. Almost, he wanted to just write out his ending and send it in. He was sure Ben and the rest of the monsters at Highlow Publishing would love it. The problem was that Kevin Carlson would be able to recognize his ending in Jack’s book. It would be too easy for him to realize he had been ripped off, get a lawyer, and ruin Jack’s career. No one would buy books written by a hack who stole from fan fiction writers.

It all came to a head on October 27th, 2015. Jack had five days before his deadline was up. Highlow wouldn’t drop him, of course, but he would have to pay the advancement back out of pocket. The problem was, he didn’t have that much money. As he had predicted, Jack was nearly broke.

Furiously, Jack typed away at his keyboard. Words flew up on the page, and finally, finally, he thought he had something. Squeezing the stress ball rapidly, he read through his work.

It was the same. Damn. Thing. Exactly what Kevin Carlson had written, almost to the word. . . .what?

Hours passed before Jack rose from the floor. He sat at his computer and stared at the screen. His words. Kevin Carlson’s words. They sat before his eyes, together, interchangeable. And an idea started to form in his mind. Pulling out his cell phone, Jack sent a text message to Kevin. He told him to stop by Jack’s apartment the next day to have dinner and drinks. That would get him there; no fanboy, no matter how talented, would pass that up. But Jack didn’t want dinner and drinks. He wanted Kevin in front of him.

Jack snapped. He screamed the worst words he could muster and threw the stress ball with all his might. It hit a window and cracked the glass right down the middle. Jack hit his knees, tears falling from his eyes. It was over. He was spent. All the work he had put in, all of his early success, all the money he had made, every award. None of it mattered now. His mind was tearing at the seams. He was simply beat.

“You are a great writer, Jack Hascolm,” he whispered through the tears. “You are a great writer, Jack Hascolm. You are a great . . .”

No. No I am not. Not anymore. I lied. I lied every time. And if I am not a great writer, then I

If he couldn’t think of a story himself, Jack Hascolm knew who to buy one from.

Cooking had never been Jack’s strong suit. He was passable at best. In the modern world, however, he believed that food was too accessible to be bothered overworking oneself in cooking. Today though, Jack decided that he would leave nothing to chance. He meant to make a deal, and it wouldn’t do to allow some idiot at a restaurant to screw up his order, and possibly put his guest in a bad mood. Besides, the cooking had helped Jack clear his head. The

hysterics of the night before had thankfully passed. Mostly.

The things that Kevin Carlson had told Jack in the bar were a bit fuzzy because of alcohol and, to tell the truth, disinterest on Jack’s part. But some things did stick out; Kevin was a parttime college student, he was from back East, and most importantly, he liked bar food. Jack’s time at college, ten years in the past now, had brought Jack’s failure as a cook to the forefront. That said, he had learned to make a very good twice-baked potato. Every college student needed to know how to make bar snacks.

Jack prepared his potatoes carefully as the morning passed to early afternoon. His first roommate had given him this recipe, possibly the best thing to come out of their association. The potato baked, and the insides had to be scooped from the skin, mixed with a little milk and butter, and were mashed. This was then mixed with chopped green onion, salt, pepper, and chili powder of all things, to give it a slight kick. The mashed concoction was then put back into the skin, covered in cheese and bacon bits, and baked a second time to bring it all together. What came out of the oven was basically a handheld heart attack, but they did taste good. The food and beer that Jack provided probably wouldn’t make the decision to buy into the plan for Kevin, but it couldn’t hurt. At least it would hopefully put him in an amendable state of mind.

Kevin arrived at Jack’s apartment right at 2 o’clock in the afternoon, the very second Jack had specified. He wondered how long Kevin had been waiting outside to make that perfectly timed entrance but bit the snarky thoughts down. Kevin was here as Jack’s savior, even if he didn’t realize it yet.

Jack let the young man through the door, exchanged pleasantries, and took his coat. As he hung the coat on the hook next to the door, Jack was pleased to see that Kevin had brought his black bag, the tablet visible in the mesh attaching it to the backpack’s exterior. That bag would have a book or two in it, Jack had promised to autograph those that Kevin hadn’t brought to the bookstore when the two had first met. But the tablet was what he really wanted. The tablet, and the stories inside. The two men walked to the front room, making small talk as they reached the couch, the precious cargo still strapped to Kevin’s shoulder.

Kevin sat down on the couch as Jack went into the kitchen to take his potatoes out of the oven. They looked just right. He set them on the counter to cool, and the scent of cheese and bacon lightly filled the room. Jack could see Kevin eyeing the food from the couch and smiled slightly to himself. Grabbing two bottles of beer from the refrigerator, Jack made his way back into the living room. He handed Kevin a beer and sat down in his armchair across from the young man, separated only by his squat coffee table.

Jack signed the two books Kevin had brought him, and the two talked for a time. Kevin was drawling on about classes and writing, and Jack made a show of acting engaged. His eyes kept wandering to the backpack at Kevin’s side, sitting slumped on the couch like a second guest. Jack had to force his gaze away from the bag and onto Kevin. Keep him talking, Jack thought to himself. Make nice, act like a friend. Make it hard for him to refuse the offer.

After what felt like an eternity, Jack decided to go for the pitch. “Kevin,” he began, “I need to talk to you about something very important. Is that alright?”

“Well, that’s no good.” Kevin took a sip of his beer. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something great though.”

Jack could feel the frustration immediately build, pounding behind his eyes. He contorted his face to look appreciative, hoping it would hide the growing weariness and anger. “Thank you for the confidence. I had hoped the same, though I am sorry to say that, at the end of this week, in just three days, if I don’t turn in a winning draft that the publisher and editor can approve of, I will miss my deadline. That means I will have to pay them back the advancement they gave me, which is a sum of money I do not currently have.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Hascolm.” “Wow, that sounds stressful.”

“Please, Jack will do fine.” Jack’s eye twitched. “Yes, it is very stressful.”

“Oh, alright! Sure thing, Jack.”

Jack forced a smile. He liked Mr. Hascolm a lot more. Ben Gains’s disembodied voice whispered softly in his ear. Deus Ex Machina, you hack. Jack ignored it. “I have run into a bit of a problem. You see, I have sent in the third installment of Under Bleeding Skies to my editor a handful of times, and he doesn’t seem to like my endings.”

Kevin looked at him, a bit of confusion on his face. “So, do you need me to lend you money? Is that what this is about? Because, I mean, I would if I could, but I don’t think I have enough to help you much.”

Inside, Jack started to scream. Lend money? That’s what he thought this was about? Dumb bastard. “No Kevin,” Jack replied with a tone he vaguely hoped didn’t sound too exasperated. “I don’t want your money. I want your story.”

Kevin’s confused look deepened. “My story?”

“Yes. I read those fan fictions at the bar. And one of them, that last one you showed me? That matches up with what I wrote in my Bleeding Skies draft. It matches very well. You see, I’ve written myself into a corner. The climax sees the protagonist in danger, in a sort of puzzle. I haven’t been able to write a satisfying way out of that puzzle, but, against all odds, you did! That story of yours could almost be copied and pasted into mine, and my problem is solved. Do you understand? I want to buy that story from you.”

Jack was met with over a minute of stunned silence. He would have found Kevin’s shocked expression hilarious in any other situation. Finally, the young man inhaled deeply and met Jack’s eyes. “I’m not sure about that.”

Kevin’s eyes were wide. “You’re serious,” he said, “and desperate.”

“You have no idea.”

Kevin thought for a moment, then nodded. “OK,” he said, “but not for ten percent. I want thirty.”

Jack tensed up. Negotiating? Really? Damn. “I still need to pay rent, Kevin,” Jack said evenly. “How about twelve? I’m not really in the mood to go back and forth on this.”

Kevin shrugged. “I don’t mind back and forth. How about twenty-five?”

Jack could have punched him. “Not sure?” he asked. “Not sure about what? Kid, this book is a guaranteed hit. This whole series may well have a movie deal one day. With the money this finale will bring in, you’d never have to worry about a payment for the rest of your college career. Hell, it’ll probably see you past college. I’m willing to give you ten percent of my profit, no matter what the book makes. All you have to do is give me that story, delete it from your tablet, and never tell anyone about this. You’d never find a better offer for anything in your “I can maybe do fifteen.”

“Then realistically, you could also do seventeen.”

Jack didn’t even try to mask his sigh. “OK, seventeen percent.”

“And,” Kevin said, holding up a finger, “one

more thing. At some point in the next couple of years, we co-author a book together.”

“. . . what?”

Kevin shrugged. “I want to be an author, same as you. Starting out my career coauthoring something with such a famous writer will almost guarantee my way into this industry.” He leaned in, holding Jack’s gaze. “You liked my stories. You are willing to buy one to finish off your big trilogy with. You know I’m good, good enough to write with you. It’ll probably be a hit. What do you say? Deal?”

Seventeen percent, and writing a whole book with this idiot? Jack’s hands were trembling. He felt ready to explode. Just get it over with, he thought. Get through this, get the story. If this is what it takes, so be it. “Deal,” he said, putting out a hand in Kevin’s direction. Kevin shook it firmly and smiled.

“It’s been great doing business with you, Jack.” The young man’s voice had a self-satisfied tone to it. “Now, were we going to eat those potatoes you made or what?”

Jack had completely forgotten he’d left the potatoes cooling on the counter. He rose and made his way to grab them. He felt foolish as he walked. How the hell did I let this smug kid get the best of me here? he asked himself. Writing with him, I do not look forward to that. Jack set the plate of potatoes on the coffee table, and Kevin picked one up eagerly. Jack didn’t feel like eating. Kevin wasted no time taking several bites of the potato, getting through half of it at a pretty remarkable speed.

Kevin smiled at Jack as he sat back down in the armchair, feeling defeated. “So,” Kevin said in between bites, “about our book, when should we start . . .” Whatever he was going to say next was lost in a sudden wheezing, gurgling sound. Jack jumped at the noise. Kevin coughed and looked at the potato skin in his hand. “What is . . .” Kevin’s voice was hoarse and sounded forced. “Is there . . . onion?”

Jack stared at him wide-eyed and nodded. “Yes, there’s onion in it, what’s wrong?”

Kevin dropped the remains of his potato and dove into his backpack. He tore everything out, including his tablet, and ripped open every pocket. He was sweating, and his breathing sounded raspy. Whatever he was looking for wasn’t there, and he tossed the pack away. He stood, and made to run towards the door, but dropped to a knee gasping. “Coat . . .” he croaked out, pointing at the coat Jack had hung by the door. “ . . .pen . . .”

Jack stared at the man, confused. “Pen?

What do you mean?” he asked, panicked. “You mean, like, an EpiPen?” Kevin nodded, still pointing. Jack jumped out of his chair and dashed to the coat. He rummaged around the pockets and found the long plastic cylinder. He tried to remember how to use it as he ran back towards Kevin, who was now on all fours, breath shallow.

Jack cracked open the cap, twisted the dial, and breathed a sigh of relief as the needle appeared. He reached Kevin, and got down on his knees next to him, readying himself to stab the pen into Kevin’s thigh.

Wait.

Jack hesitated for a moment. His mind started to race. Seventeen percent? And a future book? What if . . .

Jack stood up. This, this happening so suddenly. Right when he was feeling trapped and desperate. Right when he had no other way out. What were the chances that, in an eye blink, everything he needed fell right into his lap? It was almost as if some outside force had decided to save him. Almost as if . . . Jack’s eyes widened. Almost as if God had come down to deliver him from the inescapable situation he was trapped in. “Deus Ex Machina,” Jack breathed.

Kevin looked up at Jack. His face was red and his breath was shallow. The two locked eyes. “Jack?” Kevin said weakly. Jack held his gaze, not saying anything. Kevin gasped in twice, then collapsed. His shoulder hit the floor, and, after a moment of shaking, he stopped moving. His ragged breath went silent a moment later.

Jack stared down at the man on his floor, watching him struggle to breathe. What if this man wasn’t in the picture? What if Jack didn’t need to give up his money? What if he just, didn’t? Didn’t pay this fanboy anything. Didn’t write a book with him, didn’t have to continue to deal with him.

Didn’t use the EpiPen.

Jack stared at the body for, well, he wasn’t sure how long. Quite some time. Finally, he leaned down and checked Kevin’s pulse. There was nothing there. The young man was dead.

Jack straightened up. Then he walked over to the couch and picked up Kevin’s discarded tablet. The screen had been cracked when it was dropped, but it lit right up when Jack touched the home button. It also displayed the words “Fingerprint not recognized.” Feeling

sick, Jack turned toward the man lying dead on his floor. Then, not thinking of what he was doing as much as possible, Jack lifted Kevin’s lifeless hand and pressed his thumb against the tablet’s home button. The lock screen disappeared. Jack dropped the hand and quickly opened the tablet’s settings feature. He changed Kevin’s code to one that Jack would know, to make sure he wouldn’t be locked out again. Then he hid the tablet under his mattress.

Coming back into the living room, Jack could barely look at the body. Did I really just do that? He asked himself, again and again. Did I really just kill him?

No, he thought. He died of an allergic reaction. I tried to get the EpiPen to him in time, I was too slow. That’s what I’ll say. I didn’t have to save him. Jack looked at the corpse. “I didn’t have to save you,” he said out loud, voice shaking. “I don’t owe you that. I don’t owe you anything.” Ten percent was the offer. Hell, even twelve . . .

Slowly, Jack walked up to the dead man. He had set the EpiPen on the coffee table earlier, and he picked it up again now. He stabbed it into Kevin’s lifeless thigh, injecting the lifesaving formula into a dead blood stream. Too late now, but at least it looked like he tried. Pulling out his cell phone, Jack called 911. He didn’t even try to keep the hysterical sound out of his voice as he begged the operator to send help.

Under Bleeding Skies III: Endtimes was Jack Hascolm’s biggest success to date. It was released almost nine months after Kevin Carlson tragically died of anaphylactic shock in Jack’s apartment. It performed better than Highlow Publishing had predicted several times over. The back cover was adorned with critical praise when it hit the market. When the paperback came out six months later, both John Grisham and Stephen King were quoted prominently on the front cover, their words of praise for the story’s climactic ending were enough to make any young author swoon. A three-movie deal was reached between Warner Bros., Highlow Publishing, and Jack Hascolm on the one-year anniversary of the book’s release.

Jack dedicated the book to a teacher he had had in high school, a professor he had had in college, and Kevin Carlson, who he named as a friend taken too soon. Jack had hoped that would keep Kevin’s face from showing up in his dreams, as it had every night since his death. The dedication didn’t make a difference however, and Jack spent five months with very little sleep. After that, he had grown used to seeing Kevin’s furious scowl every night. Mostly.

By the time Jack was signing his movie contract, he had almost pushed Kevin out of his mind entirely. He was writing a new book that he thought could be even bigger than the Bleeding Skies trilogy. He was busy, helping the new director work through A-list actors to star in the first movie, writing new material, and signing books. Book signings were more frequent nowadays, now that Jack Hascolm was a household name. Jack still didn’t like book signings, but he dealt with them, and the praise was enough to make them almost manageable. However, every once in a while, a fan would walk up, clutching a couple of books, and Jack could almost swear that, for a moment, they would have the face of Kevin Carlson. The moment always passed quickly, but it happened frequently enough to make Jack sweat. Oh well. He supposed this was what he would have to deal with now, this was Kevin’s revenge.

How wrong he was. Kevin had, unintentionally, formed the groundwork of his revenge a week before he had died. With a new movie coming out, Under Bleeding Skies fan fiction was becoming very popular. One young fan in Missouri was surfing through a fan fiction website when he came across a story by someone named Kevin Carlson. It was fan fiction of Under Bleeding Skies, and it was a very blatant rip-off of the third book’s final act. The comment section was full of people who were blasting that Carlson person for just copying and pasting onto the forum, and the young fan was going to do the same. Then he noticed the date. October 16th, 2015. Over nine months before the actual book had come out.

October 16th, 2015. The day after Jack Hascolm and Kevin Carlson met at a bar in Los Angeles. The day after Kevin’s favorite author complimented his fan fiction. A compliment that gave Kevin the courage to post that fan fiction online, where it stayed relatively unnoticed until the day a fan from Missouri found it.

It didn’t take long for the internet to run wild with the young fan’s discovery. In less than a day it was discovered that the Kevin Carlson who wrote the fanfic shared a name with the man who Jack had dedicated his book to. It took a week for the story to reach Highlow Publishing. It took two weeks for them to begin formally investigating the theory that their bestseller was a rip-off.

Jack Hascolm didn’t spend much time on the internet. It took him three weeks to hear about all of this. Coincidently, he learned about it on the same day that the Los Angeles Police Department brought him in for questioning. It seemed that, in light of recent inquiries made by Highlow Publishing, they had opened an investigation into the death of Kevin Carlson.