Yellow Piece of Paper

Some of my earlier posts had wandered away so I collected them all and deposited them in the Other Writing file.

I got a rejection today that said, “Sorry but we don’t print YA fiction.” Ok, my characters were all  teenagers, but the story was horror, not YA. There is a difference. But whatever. You may ask how I know what to send where. Or not. When I began this, I had no idea how it worked. I still may lack knowledge, but I’ve figured out some of it. Over the past five years I’ve picked up sources to find out what magazines and anthologies are actively seeking stories. I don’t usually tailor my stories for them, I write what I want and then when submissions open, I look around for something that matches. Some magazines will take just about anything, but if you pay attention you will find the type of story they prefer. Some sites are more specific. You’re not going to be successful sending a young adult romance to a horror magazine. Nor a slasher story to a magazine that prints literary fiction.

Sometimes a magazine or anthology will have a theme. They want all the stories to be about a certain idea, like the environment, or to have a specific item show up. Then there are the first line and last line types. There is a magazine site called The First Line. Each season they set up the first line for a story and everyone takes it from there. One I remember was “That afternoon we had to decide what to do with the body.” There is another place where they give you the last line of a story. I found that’s a little harder to work with. I find taking off from a writing prompt easier than starting cold and having to end up at a specific spot. But I did it.

Yellow Piece of Paper came from two different calls for submissions. An old-fashioned group called Thema put out this open call.

We’re reading submissions on three themes currently: To the Pond (deadline 1 March 2022); The Crumpled Yellow Paper (deadline 1 July 2022); and So THAT’s Why (deadline 1 November 2022). The premise (target theme) must be an integral part of the plot, not necessarily the central theme but not merely incidental.

I say old-fashioned because they didn’t accept emailed manuscripts. You had to actually send them a paper copy. I believe they are the only place I have ever sent a hard copy of a story.

At the same time, another site called The Last Line wanted submissions of stories with this last line: “The shredder roared to life, grinding the paper into tiny pieces of confetti”. I had written a story on the crumpled yellow paper theme and realized this line would be an appropriate end to my story. I tacked it on and sent it in. I figured whoever contacted me first would get it, unless of course, both places rejected it.

Thema liked it so I contacted The Last Line to withdraw my submission. The anthology came out in June of this year. Unfortunately, it is available in hard copy only and only through their printing company. I asked could it be made available through Amazon but, alas, no.

I received my complimentary author’s copy and enjoyed reading other people’s take on a crumpled yellow piece of paper.

As an aside, shortly after writing this story, I was skiing and found a cell phone in the snow. I picked it up and my short story popped into my head, nearly causing me to have a panic attack. I kept it together long enough to get down to the base and gave it to the first liftie (chair lift operator) I saw. I couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. Once you read my story, you’ll understand why. Anyway, since I guess few of  you will go through the time and expense of ordering a book from Thema, and since I retained the rights, I’m publishing it here. It’s one of my favorite stories. I had a blast writing it. I hope you enjoy it.

Yellow Piece of Paper

It was just lying there in the greenery. I almost walked by it. In fact, I would have if not for the crumpled piece of yellow paper. I was out enjoying a warm Tuesday afternoon in the local national forest and almost missed it. In hindsight, I wish I had.

It was innocent enough. Only a piece of trash just off the main trail. A little part of my mind self-righteously harrumphed at the unknown slob who had left his trash in our park. But then my better nature decided it was left accidentally, not as malicious litter.

I bent to pick it up, like a good citizen, when an errant beam of light filtered through the trees at that moment and gleamed at me from a clump of pink lady slipper wild orchids. Something shimmery was lying among the emerald leaves. A cell phone, sleek and black, hidden in the green. Without thinking, I stuffed the paper in my pocket and then picked up the phone. It was still shiny, so I knew it hadn’t been out there long. It was very modern looking, with a rigid plastic case and glass cover. A minimalist piece of work, I decided it was a man’s phone. My friend Julie would smack my arm and call me a patriarchal pig if I said it around her.

            Picking it up had brought the screen to life. The little bars showed it had a connection even out in the national forest. My ancient model, little better than a flip phone, and had no reception there. The time and date came up, with a grid of nine dots and instructions to draw the unlock pattern. It showed 32% power. I guessed it had been lost for a day or so, not much longer. I stuck the phone in my other pocket and continued my hike.

            When I got back to the parking lot, I looked around to see if there were others. I thought I could ask if they had lost a phone, even though it may have been there overnight. There were a few cars, but the only people I saw were two ladies ignoring each other and looking at their phones. I wasn’t sure what the lost and found procedure was and didn’t see any place to post a note. I remembered the piece of paper and pulled it out to throw in the trash bin. It was just a little folded over Post It note, grimy from the path. It looked like someone may have stepped on it.

Cretins. Why didn’t they pick it up? People have no sense of pride in this beautiful forest.

            Out of curiosity, I unfolded the paper. It had numbers written on it, but I could make no sense of them.

35.874570, -78.752838

Did the phone and numbers go together? They weren’t phone numbers and would be a hell of a passcode. I unlocked my car and sat sideways in the seat, feet on the pavement, studying the piece of yellow paper. Maybe the web, I thought, but one look at my phone showed “no service”. Of course. Damn cheap phone. I brought up the calculator and added the numbers.

-42.878268

That told me nothing. I stuffed the paper back in my pocket. I was intrigued enough to pursue it later.

            On the way home, I had a flash of brilliance. Coordinates! Longitude and latitude. Those were probably the location of something valuable. I might have a treasure map on my hands. But someone else was also looking for it. Either they lost it on their way into the woods, or more likely, they went there, found nothing, and lost the paper on the way out. I could really use a buried treasure. Between student loans, rent, and bills, some months I had to choose whether to feed me or feed my car.

            My tiny third-floor apartment was stifling when I returned. I had to use the air conditioning sparingly. I loved my job working with handicapped kids and with my part-time library job it almost paid the bills. Mom helped by paying my cell phone bill and occasionally covering an unexpected expense. She always said we’d look back on this time someday and laugh. I was ready for that someday to come. I wanted to be able to afford nice things, like the cool phone I found.

            I cranked on the A/C and sat on my sofa, cradling the phone in my hands. So cool and sleek, it just screamed expensive. Whoever lost it was probably frantic, or at least really pissed. I was pleased I’d be able to brighten their day once I figured out who the phone belonged to.

There ought to be an app that says, “this phone belongs to Joe Schmo, and this is how you find him.” I didn’t think there was such an app, though I could be wrong.

 I tapped the phone, and the screen lit up again with the locked screen pattern. I thought for a minute and then ran my finger down the left side of the grid and then across the bottom in an L pattern. With a ping, the phone populated with dozens of colorful apps. Sweet. I would bet most people used that simple pattern to lock their phones. I swiped on the phone icon and found the owner’s contacts. Meaningless names. I could call them at random, asking if they knew anyone who’d lost a phone. But since the guy lost his phone, he might not have been able to let his friends know. I scrolled through the contacts to the I section but found no ICE or In Case of Emergency number. Then I tried the M section. There it was–Mom. Mom might not know which child had lost a phone, but she could narrow my search down considerably.

            Smiling at my ingenuity, I pressed the icon to make the call. On the third ring, a deep yet gentle voice answered the call.

“Robbie, I see you’ve found your phone.”

“Um, no ma’am. My name is Chad Harris. I found this phone out in the national forest. Can you help me return it?”

“Oh, dear me. I’m sorry. I just assumed. Robbie’s been so upset he lost it. It’s quite an expensive phone.”

“Yeah, looks like it.”

“Let me give you his email address and you can contact him. He’ll be so glad.” She rattled off his Gmail account. “It’s so kind of you to do this. I fear many people wouldn’t. Thank you.”

“Yes, ma’am. People can be mean. I’ll email him right now. Bye.”

Once I’d hung up, I went and fired up my old laptop, which was soon to be another victim of planned obsolescence. Windows had notified me they were no longer supporting my version of operating system. Just another attempt to wring more money from poor people like me.

After opening my browser, I drafted an email to Robert Brennan. I put “I HAVE YOUR PHONE” in the subject line, figuring that would grab his attention. I sent it off and then began working through my emails. Most of it was spam; amazing how many ways there are to enlarge my penis or get money from Nigeria. Just as I deleted the promise of a way to lose twenty pounds in two days, my computer clicked to alert me I had a new email. It was from Robert Brennan.

The guy said he was so relieved I’d found his phone and would like to pick it up as soon as possible. I responded with my address and told him I’d be there the rest of the day. He quickly replied that he lived about fifteen minutes away and was coming right over. Great. Good deed done.

Since I was on the web, I decided to see if the mystery numbers I’d found were coordinates. I entered a search for “longitude and latitude” and clicked on an app that would show the location of coordinates. Once my numbers were entered the app said the spot was  in my local national forest. Bingo! They were coordinates, after all. I clicked on view and got an aerial shot of a rugged path I’d never been on. Should I go looking for whatever was at the coordinates? Why would someone hide something in the forest? Maybe it was mob money. Or drugs. I wondered if the area had booby traps or was under electronic surveillance. The more I thought about it, the surer I became that I would have to go, out of curiosity if nothing else. I just had to know.

Mom always said idle hands were the devil’s playground and those words were so true with me. With fifteen minutes to kill, I looked at the sleek phone sitting on my desk and felt my curiosity rise. I wondered what Robert Brennan looked like, what he found interesting, maybe what music he liked. A cell phone is like a private dossier on the personality, peculiarities, and peccadilloes of its owner. With only a slight twinge of guilt, I picked up the phone and swiped Gallery.

Robert Brennan must be a fan of nature, I decided. There was a group of pictures taken in a forested area. I recognized some of the landscape from the national forest just outside town. There were pictures of blooming trees and bushes, azaleas, a small group of pink lady slippers, that kind of thing. I swiped again and found what must have been a selfie. Robert was a young guy like me, not yet thirty. He had black hair and deep-set eyes. It looked like he hadn’t shaved in several days. On some guys it looks stylish and on some it just looks like a bum coming off a three-day bender. Robert was the former, although the smile on his face wasn’t reflected in his bright blue eyes. For some reason, his eyes disturbed me. A bit too intense.

Swipe, swipe. More trees. Does this guy have no friends? I packed my dinky little phone full of pictures of me and my friends doing fun stuff. We didn’t have much money, but we knew how to live it up on the cheap. It looked like Robert just hung out in the woods.

Another swipe and I found a lady. A beautiful honey blond in shorts and a tee. She was slender, but with nice padding in all the right places. She reminded me of a sweet girl I knew in college. I smiled at the memory. There were several shots of her perusing a bodega I recognized as being downtown. There was something odd about the photos, though. Then it hit me. She wasn’t looking at the camera and these were full body shots taken from a distance. She didn’t know he was photographing her. Heat swept across my face at the realization. I wasn’t sure if I was embarrassed for her or angry at him. I swiped through and found more pictures of her window shopping downtown, in the same clothes, so it was the same day. All were from a distance. He had followed her. Crap. He’s a stalker. That was probably why he was so eager to get his phone back. Didn’t want anyone to find out he’s a pervert. My ears started burning, a sure sign I was mad. I was tempted to erase the pictures, but I could tell from the selfie that Robert was a big guy, and I didn’t want to tangle with him. I ignored the slight feeling of fear that this awful person was coming to my apartment. I’ll just give him the phone and get rid of him as soon as possible. I should have stopped there. Shoulda, woulda, coulda. Famous last words.

I swiped again, and my eyes almost popped out of my head. Miss Honey Blond was lying on a floor, gagged, with her arms tied behind her, and her feet bound.

Oh my God! He’s got her tied up somewhere.

Her face was wet with tears and there was grime or bruising on her arms and forehead. She was looking at the camera, fear bright in her eyes. My heart rate spiked, and I nearly dropped the phone. Swipe. More pictures of her. Next, her arms were bound to her feet, causing her to arch her body in a way that looked painful. This guy’s a sadist. I gotta do something about this. But what? I used my free hand to wipe the sweat off my face. The A/C had cooled the room, but I was drenched and panting like I’d just run a race.

Swipe.

Oh, mother of God, no!

It was another picture from the forest. The focus was on a trench about four feet deep. At the bottom lay Miss Honey Blond, still bound, curled in a fetal ball, eyes closed. The next picture showed her covered with dirt except for her face. The next two pictures showed the trench filled, dirt patted down and finally leaves and twigs strewn across it.

Sweet Jesus. He killed her.

Suddenly I knew what was at 35.874570, -78.752838.

I dropped the phone on the desk as a pain skewered my heart. Gasping, I clutched my chest. I’m too young to have a freaking heart attack. I tried deep breaths until I felt in control again.

Oh my God. He’s a murderer! I gotta do something. Tell somebody.

Snatching up the phone, I dialed 911.

“Nine one one,” the operator said. “Please state your emergency?”

Suddenly panic-stricken, I couldn’t form words. I struggled to say, “Grrglem.”

“Can you speak? What’s the nature of your emergency?” The voice had gone from bored to concerned.

“I got… I got… there’s a murderer coming to my house.”

“Someone’s in your house?”

“No, no. He’s not here yet. He’s coming. I have evidence he killed somebody, and he’s coming to get it.”

“Sir, if you believe you may be in danger, I recommend you leave the area immediately.”

“Good idea,” I muttered, wondering why I hadn’t thought of that.

Knock knock knock

“He’s here!” I said into the phone, gasping in alarm.

“Remain calm, sir. Is there a backdoor you can use to get out?”

“No! It’s a crappy apartment that’s not up to code and ought to be condemned.” I sprang up from my desk and backed up to the wall farthest from the door, eyes wide.

Knock knock knock

“I’ve already dispatched the police,” the operator said. “I have your location as 110 Hillcrest Street, correct? They should be there within five minutes.”

“A lot can happen in five minutes. I can get killed in five minutes.” I squeaked the last word as my throat closed off and I began wheezing. Asthmatic hyperventilation sucks.

“Sir, make sure the door is locked, and then barricade yourself in the most secure room. Something like locking yourself in your bedroom and then getting in the closet. The police should be there before he gets to you. Hurry.” I jumped at her insistence that I hurry.

Knock knock knock.

“Hey, dude. You home? I told you I was coming over. Open up.”

I looked back at the door and almost threw up. The button on the doorknob was sideways, meaning it wasn’t locked. I froze in place.

Knock knock knock.

“Hey, guy. Let me in.” The knob slowly turned, and the door opened. Robert Brennan called, “Anybody home?” before spotting me. “Dude, why didn’t you answer the door?”

I didn’t bother trying to answer. I just gaped in horror. He looked much like his selfie. Unshaven, jeans, tee, and hiking boots. And there was dirt on his hands.

Crap. Maybe he was moving the body, afraid his phone might lead someone to the grave. That means there’s a ready-made hole in the woods for me. Shit!

I heard the tinny rattle of the 911 operator continuing to talk, even though I had lowered my hands. Brennan must have heard it also, for his eyes lowered to his phone.

“Who you calling on my phone? You better not be running up my bill. Hand it over.” He approached me, his movement breaking the spell. With a squeak of terror, I bolted for my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

“What the hell, dude. Give me my phone.” He was at the door, trying to push it open. The freaking lock had never worked.

I heard a siren in the distance and prayed to a God I didn’t believe in for strength.

“Open the freaking door, man. Give me my goddamn phone.”

With a mighty shove, the door swung open, and I was thrown back against the far wall. Brennan was through in an instant and pounced on me. I rolled on the floor feeling like a bear was mauling me. I tried to curl into a ball, cuddling the phone against my belly. If he got it he would kill me and erase the pictures.

            “Help!” I screamed, hearing footsteps in my living room. Brennan froze and began trembling as if having a seizure. I peeked over my shoulder and saw the wires leading from his back to the police officer’s taser.

***

            The police tossed Brennan’s unconscious body into a patrol car and headed off to the county jail. They treated me with more decorum and asked me to come down to make a statement. I was embarrassed that I couldn’t stop trembling in front of all the posturing, macho patrol officers.

            At the station I sat with detectives Garza and Carlyle. They offered me a soda and asked me to tell them what happened. I told them my story of finding the paper and the phone. When I showed them the pictures on the phone they became more interested. And even more so when I gave them the paper with the coordinates. Another detective wandered by and looked over Garza’s shoulder.

            “Nice looking girl,” Garza said. “It’s a shame if something’s happened to her. So you think he buried her at these coordinates?”

            I nodded my head vigorously. I had been afraid they wouldn’t believe me.

            “I don’t think she’s dead,” the unnamed detective said. “Otherwise, that’s the best-looking zombie I’ve ever seen.” He nodded toward the door where Miss Honey Blonde had just entered and was holding her large purse in front of her chest like a shield. Her eyes were wide and glassy with unshed tears. There were no bruises on her face.

            “Robbie called and said y’all arrested him. I want to bail him out. Who do I need to talk to?”

            Maybe you can imagine my surprise, but if you can’t, well it was pretty epic. I inadvertently dropped a few F-bombs. It turned out she and Brennan were into weird bondage role playing. Kinky much?

            Understandably, Brennan was unhappy with me; said I overreacted. The next thing I know he said he was charging me with holding stolen goods. What the fuck? I didn’t steal his phone. I was trying to return it. Things were getting out of hand, so I called Mom’s attorney friend. Friend is a relative term at two hundred fifty an hour. He told me not to worry. I could counter sue with trespassing and battery. He talked with Brennan’s guy. Five hundred dollars later everything was dropped, and we could all walk away. Just pile it on top of my student loans. I’ll be paying off my debts until the day I die.

***

Monday morning found me at my school’s admin area, hoping to see the principal. Without an appointment I’d probably have to slap a student to get an audience. But only the principal could okay an advance on my salary. I needed it to make a down payment to my attorney. Or maybe just take it and head west and never look back. That sounded like a more pleasant approach.

Emma, the secretary had always been friendly with me and told me to hang out and she’d get me in. I slouched onto a sofa, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. I shoved my hands in my pockets prepared to sulk for however long it took to see the principal. My right hand felt a piece of paper in my pocket. Maybe an errant dollar I’d forgotten about. No, too small. I pulled it out and found the damn piece of yellow paper that got me into this mess. I glared at it, baring my teeth in ferocious anger. Looking around, I spied the shredder in the corner. With a measure of satisfaction in my eye I marched over to it, pressed the button and shoved in the offending piece of yellow. The shredder roared to life, grinding the paper into tiny pieces of confetti.

END