Deus Ex Machina

Jack read the letter twice, just to make sure he hadn’t misunderstood. There it was, plain as day. Rejected. Again. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered to himself.

Jack Hascolm poured himself a glass of bourbon from a glass bottle on his bookshelf. He downed it in a quick gulp, and, wincing at the low burn in his gut, poured another. This one he took with him, sitting down on the couch in his living room and sipping it slowly. Putting his feet up on the coffee table, he tried to relax. Nothing changed. His head continued its pounding, and that familiar worry that had been plaguing him for the last three months was back, making his insides twist up in knots.

Sipping on his bourbon, Jack read the letter one more time. The addition of alcohol had yielded no changes. “Rejected” still glared at him from the top of the page. And those words, those dreaded words. Deus Ex Machina. Jack knew the term, of course, he had studied writing in college. It had been pounded in his head by a half dozen teachers as the literary mistake to avoid. Deus Ex Machina. God from the machine.

Wayson Foy, Second Place

Dear Jack,

I reviewed your latest manuscript for the final third of Under Bleeding Skies III (Endtimes). Once again, I have to send it back as “Rejected.” Same problem as the last couple of drafts, the climax is resolved too conveniently. All of the great build-up is ruined by a conclusion that comes out of nowhere. I would daresay this is your most exciting book yet, but this climax cheapens it all. It is, I am sorry to say, the very definition of a “Deus Ex Machina” ending.

I am confident that you will turn in an acceptable edit before the deadline you have agreed to. I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Sincerely, Ben Gains Head Editor Highlow Publishing

The term hailed from Ancient Greece. Actors in those early plays were often saved from inescapable peril by a god; Zeus or Athena or one of those types. The actor playing the god would be lowered to the stage using a machine, often a primitive pulley system. They would come in right at the critical moment and save the hero of the play from certain doom. Back then it must have been quite an exciting conclusion to a story. Today, it was an editor’s nightmare. That was what one of Jack’s professors had called it. A good story with perfect build-up was ruined when the author allowed some unexpected, random element to swoop in and save the day. If the protagonist didn’t earn the victory, the reader would feel cheated. And if an editor, or a publisher, thought the reader would feel cheated, they wouldn’t accept the story.

Deus Ex Machina. Jack shook his head. For the better part of a year, his editor had been throwing that line in his face. Every time he turned in a completed manuscript, no matter the work he’d put in, the foreshadowing he added, or the twist he tried to pull off, Gains would send it back. “I liked everything about it, Jack, except for the end.” “You have good suspense here, Jack, just try to pay it off better.” “Don’t you think that came out of nowhere, Jack? I see what you’re trying to do, but it’s just not working.” Head throbbing, Jack crumpled the letter up and tossed it against the wall.

Annoyed, Jack stood and drained his glass. He left it sitting on the coffee table, not caring about the ring it might leave on the new wood. He walked to his desk, passing a few awards hanging on the wall. Nothing huge, but they had been exciting for a new writer. The most recent one, now two years old, had the words “Suspense/Thriller” engraved across the top, just over a gold inlaid “#1 in the Nation.” He’d been particularly proud of that one.

Easing into his office chair, Jack flipped open his computer and stared blankly at a new, white digital page, shining with electronic light. “You are a great writer, Jack Hascolm.” He said it out loud, to no one but himself. Verbal words of affirmation, just like he had been taught in school. Jack wasn’t sure if he believed in the power of personal affirmation, but he liked saying those words. They came before every session of writing, a reminder of who he was and what he believed.

Jack stared at the empty page for a while, then allowed his mind to drift and his eyes to wander. Framed near his desk was a contract. It outlined a three-book-long series to be written for Highlow Publishing. Jack had been thrilled when he had signed that deal. Publishers usually only wanted self-contained stories from newer authors; to buy into a series was a commitment, and a risk. But, after writing five stand-alone novels, each being wellreceived, Jack was suddenly considered a safe investment. The deal had been struck, and Jack’s first series, Under Bleeding Skies, had been born. Jack could still remember the pride he felt when he put his name on that slip of

paper. Now he wanted to throw it against the wall to join the most recent rejection letter.

The first two books had both been successful. Jack was gaining quite a large reputation for his suspenseful stories. He was downright famous for concocting pulseraising tension followed by narrow escapes. Right on the back cover of Bleeding Skies II, the publisher had included a quote from a New York Times critic, singing Jack’s praises. “A true artist of suspense and excitement,” the critic had written. “No one will ever finish a Hascolm novel disappointed.” How ironic. Jack almost laughed as he thought of that, but he felt too sick.

Before he realized it, two hours had passed. Jack had not written a single word. He was growing frustrated and found that he had been clenching his jaw tight for, well, he wasn’t sure how long. Loosening his jaw, he fiddled around with a small ball on his desk. A stress ball – he used to carry it around with him. He gave it a good squeeze, then another, and then a few more. It never worked like his old therapist had thought it would. Another good reason Jack had fired that quack.

An hour later, and, with nothing worth reading typed out on the page, Jack decided to go to bed. He deleted the few lines of random junk he had jotted down and stood. The pounding in his head was back, and he doubted it would be gone in the morning. He walked away from the computer, then turned and bent over the keyboard. He wrote down the only thing he had on his mind.

Deus Ex Machina.

One week later, and far too early in the morning, Jack found himself sitting at a foldup table, pen in hand, surrounded by books and people. More people than he had seen in a very long time. Living alone was a joy, parties should be small, and crowds should be avoided whenever possible. Jack wasn’t averse to people. On the contrary, he did enjoy a good chat, particularly about his work. But this . . . this wasn’t that. Sitting in a bookstore, signing his name dozens upon dozens of times for hours on end was enough to drive him crazy.

One after another they came, clutching his various novels, wanting his signature and handshake. Many thanked him for his work, plenty had questions. Too many wanted special messages written on the title page below his name, regards to a loved one or a confirmation of theories. Everyone told him what a wonderful writer he was. He was their favorite. They were so glad a friend turned them on to his work. This book is the greatest thriller I’ve ever read. That book was worthy of a Pulitzer

Prize. This one really should be adapted into a movie. his face, eyes straining as he kept himself from wincing. Every reminder was a knife in his gut.

Normally the compliments would have sat well with Jack, but there were just so many. Person after person after person after person. The line never seemed to dwindle. Singing his praises or not, they were eventually reduced to a faceless horde. Identifying marks blurred until he could barely separate them. A blue streak in the brown hair of a pretty young woman. Big-rimmed glasses on the older man who wanted the autograph made out to his daughter. An earring in only one ear of this man, followed by three earrings in the ear of the one behind him. Blue eyes, brown eyes, green eyes, gray. Red shirt, three-piece suit, light blue button-down, tank top. Was that one in cowboy boots? Are we in Texas? Hick.

This signing had been arranged by his agent months ago. The woman didn’t know of Jack’s trouble, didn’t know he should never have taken time away from writing to meet people and sign books. No one did, except for Jack’s editor, Ben. Ben’s email today, his first since the rejection letter, had set Jack on edge. It hadn’t been a threat, not really. Ben had been amiable enough, but he had been sure to remind Jack of his deadline and reminded him that the publishers would want that advancement back if the deadline wasn’t met. “I know it won’t be any trouble,” the email had said. “You are a great writer. I am sure you will have something worthy of your reputation by the first of November. I can’t wait to read it.”

The faceless crowd continued. Jack had to strain to keep himself engaged in the chitchat of each person, those short conversations that he was sure meant so much to his fans. Eventually, he found a rhythm in the smiling, talking, signing.

Almost this could be tolerable. Almost he could bask in the praise rained upon him by the adoring fans in line. But, inevitably, damn near every one of them said the same thing. “Can’t wait for the next book!” “So excited for Bleeding Skies III!” “I’ve been waiting for this all year, so stoked!” Jack kept his smile fixed on

Later that day, Jack found himself walking down the road towards The Spinning Lady. It wasn’t the nicest bar in L. A., nor the most popular. That was one of the things Jack liked best about it: it was never too crowded. Loud music and a bunch of sweaty drunks would just annoy him today. Hell, they would most days.

The sun was high enough to reflect off of the windows of parked cars, getting in Jack’s eyes. Still, it was good to be outside. Prior to

that morning’s book signing, he had barely left his apartment since the rejection letter had arrived. Shutting himself away had not yielded the desired results; Jack was no closer to finding a satisfying conclusion to his story than he had been on day one. Every time he puzzled out a draft, he could almost hear Ben Gains saying those three stupid words. One unearned win for the heroes after another, every single time. “Deus Ex Machina” hadn’t been said once in this morning’s email, but it was clear that it was still on the editor’s mind. Black and grey feathers drew Jack’s focus. A pigeon, hopping in front of him on the sidewalk, pecking the ground. Jack kicked at it, causing it to fly away squawking.

Jack stopped and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He pulled out his ball, he had started carrying the stupid thing around again a few days prior, and squeezed firmly. No need to take my frustration out on a bird, he thought. Feeling a little calmer, he started walking again. “You are a great writer, Jack Hascolm,” he muttered to himself. He was determined to use that phrase at least as often as the stress ball.

He had chosen to walk to clear his mind, but his thoughts kept returning to the book. No doubt about it, he had written his protagonist, and by extension, himself, into a corner. For all of his planning, there was no way he could figure to pull off a satisfying conclusion. Normally at this point, Jack would have done extensive reworking of his plot, and come up with a different climax. But time was running short, and he didn’t believe he could go through the whole editing process again. Jack needed this version of the story to work.

The Spinning Lady stood on the corner of Allen Street and Waller Avenue. It was a squat building, with a brown stone exterior. The sign above the front door was painted with a female dancer, like the kind that would be in a music box. As Jack neared the bar, she seemed to smile down on him. He rolled his eyes back at her. Inside was dimly lit, with a single bar against one wall and a row of booths against the opposite wall. Tables were positioned helter-skelter in between, and a single pool table resided against the back wall, near the door to the kitchen. Little light illuminated the hardwood floor, scratched to hell in many places. All bars smelled the same to Jack, a little like air conditioning, a little like liquor. Jack made his way to the bar. The cushion on the stool he selected was the least ripped of the five available.

He placed his order, and the bartender had his glass filled within a minute. The clock set amidst the bottles of liquor on the wall read 3:30 pm. The bar was almost empty, just how Jack liked it. He meant to be gone before a crowd formed. Still, he was happy to be out of the house, and he made small talk with the bartender, Jose. Jack liked him well enough, though Jose was probably ten years younger than Jack’s 32. He was working to put

himself through college, though Jack couldn’t remember what in. Business perhaps?

The distraction of talking to Jose was a welcome one, but soon the kid was off in the kitchen, telling the cook something. Jack sat alone. Neon signs on the walls and faded pictures near the bar did little to hold his interest, so he took to staring at the brown liquid in his glass. His second, though he thought he might have one more before leaving. The place was a little busier now, though still pretty dead. Jack didn’t want to stick around to wait for the city to get off of work. He needed to get home and get back to working on . . . jumped. He had been so consumed in his worry that he hadn’t noticed Jose return or that a stranger had sat himself on the stool next to the one Jack was using. Jose turned to make the drink and the stranger smiled at Jack. Jack gave a short nod and went back to looking at his glass. Idiot, Jack thought, why did he have to sit right next to me?

“Nice outside today, isn’t it?” There was that voice again. Jack turned to the stranger, who was looking at him expectantly. He was a young man, mid-twenties, probably, with dark hair and brown eyes. He was a little heavyset, though not too large, and he wore a light blue buttoned shirt. He had a black backpack sitting on the floor next to his chair.

Damn. There went his mood again. Jack sighed and started working his stress ball. Squeeze as he might, he wasn’t finding any answers in it. Squeezing the ball hadn’t helped him yesterday morning when his rent bill had come in. He was able to pay it, but not comfortably. His writing had brought in a good amount of money, enough to pay for his apartment and the furnishings, but he was far from rich. His advancement on the book he was writing now was almost gone, and in a few months, he was afraid he would be broke. Maybe I should have gone for a smaller apartment, Jack thought.

“One Long Island Iced Tea, please.” The voice appeared suddenly to Jack’s left, and he almost

He was still looking at Jack like he wanted an answer. “Yeah,” Jack said, looking away. “Nice weather.”

“I would have thought it would have gotten cold by now,” the stranger said. “I haven’t been in California long, but I feel like in the past October has always been at least a little chilly.” He kept looking at Jack, who didn’t respond. “Have you lived in California long?”

“All my life,” Jack muttered, not trying to hide the annoyed tinge in his voice. Jose returned, thankfully, and set the stranger’s drink on the table. Then he looked to Jack.

“Would you like anything else, Mr. Hascolm?” Jose asked. His accent was faint, but it made him pronounce “Hascolm” in a very distinct way. Jack didn’t mind it, even if the young bartender did speak with far too much enthusiasm for such a mundane question. Before he could ask to close out his tab, the stranger to his left straightened up and clapped his hands together, startling Jack.

“I thought that was you!” the stranger said excitedly. “You’re Jack Hascolm, right? The author? You’ve changed clothes since this morning. I was at your book signing!”

It was Jack’s turn to sit up straight, looking at the young man. “That’s right,” he said, a small smile tugging at his mouth. He tried to remember the young man from that morning. Did he recognize that blue shirt, or was that in his head? “I signed your book this morning? Sorry, I can’t seem to place you.”

“You did! I doubt I made too much of an impression, there were a lot of us there. But I love your novels, I’ve read all of them!” The stranger was looking wide-eyed at him. He seemed so excited he might burst. “I think Neptune Rain must be my favorite book now. And, of course, I’ve been waiting for the last Bleeding Skies novel for over a year!”

A sharp spike of annoyance rushed through Jack at the mention of his series. He could all but hear Ben Gains mocking him in the back of his mind, whispering “Deus Ex Machina” in his ear and laughing evilly. Jack pushed all that down. Meeting fans outside of signings wasn’t his favorite activity, people were often overexcited. That said, hearing someone singing his praises without the hustle and bustle of that morning’s crowd did feel good. “I am glad to hear,” Jack said. “It is always nice to meet someone who enjoys my work. That’s what it’s all about, after all.” He turned to Jose, remembering suddenly that he was there. “Uh, sorry Jose. One more of these please.”

As Jose started the drink, the stranger stuck out his hand toward Jack. “My name is Kevin Carlson. It is an honor to meet you!”

Jack shook his hand, smiling. “And an honor to meet you.”

Two drinks later, Jack realized that he had been talking to Kevin Carlson for over an hour. The young man was definitely overeager to meet the author, but the alcohol had cooled the annoyance Jack would normally have felt at that. People were starting to find their way into the bar, and Kevin suggested the two make their way to one of the booths to sit and talk in comfort. Jack wanted to refuse, but the idea

of going back home and trying to write again made him feel sick. Before he knew it, Jack found himself sitting at a table, nursing a glass of beer, while Kevin Carlson ranted and raved about Neptune Rain.

“What gave you the idea to make the tour guide a serial killer?” Carlson was asking. Jack was a little drunk and had been examining the worn-out leather of the seat he was on, so it took him a moment to remember what the kid was referring to.

This kid does seem like quite a big fan. Could he have followed me here? Jack thought absently. It was possible, he had heard of it happening to some of his peers. Some overeager fans would track an author after a reading or signing and “coincidently” bump into them at a restaurant or bar. This was usually pretty harmless, just someone looking to meet a favorite writer without being pushed through a line. Jack had read about obsessed people becoming stalkers, but even if this Kevin had decided to follow him to the bar, Jack doubted that he was that type. Yes, I’ll bet he did follow me here, Jack thought, amused.

“I needed a subplot,” Jack recalled. “I based her off of a girl I’d known in college. Nice lady, though she never seemed to blink. Her stare was unnerving to me, it creeped me out and made me think of Hannibal Lector. So when my editor called me to say he thought the book needed a secondary antagonist, I thought of that girl and how badly she creeped me out and replaced a minor character in the tour guide with her. The tour guide was originally a man, and I think he had five lines of dialog total, maybe six. He became her, and she became a major character. Hell of a way to up the word count.”

“Hell of a way!” Kevin said and lifted up his glass. Jack clanked his glass against Kevin’s. He had learned long ago that fanboys would always find a reason to do “cheers” once or twice a night.

The bar was well and truly full now, though it wasn’t bustling like some club or college bar. There was a second bartender helping Jose, and a couple of waiters walking to tables and taking orders. Kevin kept bombarding Jack with questions until one of those waiters found his way to the table.

“Would you gentlemen like anything to eat?” he asked, notepad in hand.

Jack looked at his watch and realized it was getting on six. He had stayed right through dinner. Kevin Carlson looked at him and shrugged. “Might as well, right?” he asked. “I do love bar food. I’ll buy!”

Jack nodded. “Might as well.”

“Excellent,” the waiter said. He didn’t have the enthusiasm in his voice that Jose always had. “Our special tonight is shrimp street tacos.”

Before Jack could say he liked that idea, Kevin shook his head. “Sorry, I’m allergic to shellfish. Mind if we do wings and fries?”

“That will be fine,” Jack said, mostly keeping the bitterness out of his voice. The waiter took the order and went back towards the kitchen. “Allergic to shellfish, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” Kevin said, grinning. “I’m actually allergic to a few things.” He started rattling them off, though Jack wasn’t really listening. You would be the type to have a lot of allergies, he thought to himself. Fanboys.

The wings came and went, along with a few more beers. Jack was definitely feeling the drink now, and, by his red face, it looked as if Kevin was as well. Jack had grown tired of Kevin’s endless string of questions but was consciously trying not to be rude. Kevin was a bit annoying, and definitely a fanboy, but he seemed to be alright, though Jack was fairly certain at that point that Kevin had indeed followed him to the bar. Oh well. To distract from more questions, Jack started to ask Kevin about his life. He was from Delaware but had moved to California for college a few years prior. He was taking classes now, though only part-time. And of course, he wanted to be a writer.

Of course he did. Jack concealed an eye roll. Everyone thought they could be an author. All you have to do is sit around and write stories, it’s easy! Why not be an author? They didn’t know about the stress, the late nights, the writer’s block. The rejections . . .

Damn. Damn damn damn. There it was again. Jack tried to force it from his mind. “Have you written anything yet?” he asked, trying to get his mind away from his novel.

“Yeah,” Kevin said. “Mostly just, you know, school stuff. One of my professors has been having us write fan fiction as practice, and I’ve kind of made it a hobby.”

“Fan fiction?” Jack said with amusement. He had never thought highly of fan fiction; he considered it to be cheating. “Your professor actually has you turn that stuff in?”

“Oh yeah, though not since last semester. We had to post a whole story online for our final project.”

Ripping off other authors, Jack thought. What

a stupid idea. Then a thought struck him. “Have you ever written fan fiction of my books?” he asked.

Kevin turned red. “Uh, yeah I have,” he said, sounding embarrassed. “Not for my class, I haven’t even posted any of it online. But yeah, a couple of times.”

Jack almost laughed out loud. Fan fiction of his work? What an idiot. I might as well have some fun with this, Jack thought. “Do you have any with you? I’d love to read some.”

Nervously, Kevin pulled a tablet out of his backpack. He turned it on and opened up a file. The electric blue of the tablet lit the dim bar, and Jack eagerly took the device. This is going to be good, he thought and started to read. included the hero stuck in a trap, not unlike the one Jack had written in his draft. The circumstances were different, but they were similar enough that they gave Jack pause. This was a lot like the scene his editor had rejected, time and time again. And there, on the last of the four pages, Kevin had written a brilliant escape from danger. The protagonist had freed himself and saved the rest of the group. And he had done it without any outside influences, with no help, with only his wit and a trick that seemed complex and obvious at the same time.

Jack sat back in amazement. That was it. That ending, that was what he needed. No Deus Ex Machina there. No unearned lucky breaks. It . . . it was perfect.

And Jack hadn’t written it.

And, to his shock, it was good. Very, very good. This silly fanboy had some talent! Jack was impressed, and even told Kevin so, which made the young man beam. Jack read a couple of stories, and though they were rough, he couldn’t help but find them entertaining.

And then he found it. In the last file he read, a mere four pages, was a story about his characters from Under Bleeding Skies. The very book Jack was driving himself mad over. The story Kevin had written was a basic piece but

Jack walked into his apartment that night at one o’clock in the morning. His head was pounding from too much alcohol. He had finally left Kevin, taking the man’s phone number with a promise to get ahold of him to sign the rest of his books one day. And yet his mind stayed with the young man, and the story he had written. Oh, that story. How had he done it? How had he found the answer that Jack himself, the actual author of the books, could not?

Surely, if this random student could figure