The Best Short Story Ever Written

If I could write one thing, just one good thing, that would be enough for me.

As I board the city bus, I can’t shake the dread in my stomach. Skipping class isn’t an option. I couldn’t let the student loans go to waste. This is what I wanted, right?

I’d been lucky. The short stories were read aloud in class alphabetically, and since my last name started with V I’d been pushed to day two. No matter how many extra days I was given, though, my story would fall flat. It wasn't that I didn't have ideas; I had loads of them. It was the execution of those ideas that I struggled with. This one was even worse than the last.

If Rachel looked at me again with that pitiful glance, as if she were ashamed of me, I think I’d die. I’d only taken the dumb creative writing class as an opportunity to get to know her better, which had backfired miserably. Now she was fully aware of how awful my writing was, and probably inferred that my lack of talent crossed over to other, more carnal aspects of my life.

With a sigh, I reach into my satchel to grab my notebook. Maybe one more read-through will grant me a sudden wave of muse, and I’ll be able to eke out a passing grade and save what little dignity I still had after my previous writing attempts.

Just as I do, the bus slams on the brakes. I lose my balance, drop my satchel, and nearly fall onto the old lady sitting sitting in front of me. I’m momentarily crowded as people move, disembarking and climbing aboard before I can reach under the seats for my bag. I grimace as my fingers touch the tacky surface of the floor.

Then, my fingers graze something else.

It’s a small black notebook. I caress the smooth, velvety texture, drawn to it like a candle in the darkness.

I glance around, looking for the owner.

“Ma’am, is this yours?”

She shakes her head, no. I make eye contact with a few others; they all shake their heads.

Shouldering my bag, I take an open seat and turn the little book over in my hands. The size is perfect; it’s meant to be held. For something so small it carries a palpable weight, as if bearing heavy contents. The texture is soft, supple. I never want to let it go.

I flip open to the first page, wondering if there’s an address I can return it to.

Instead, I’m greeted by lettering. The ink is coppery red, not black, and looks like it’d been penned by quill.

The first sentence grabs my attention. All the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, a shiver trembles down my spine, and my mouth runs dry.

I shouldn’t be reading this. It’s an invasion of privacy.

But damnit, I can’t help myself.

My soul devours the words. Each sentence progresses purposefully towards the next, pirouetting within my mind, telling me all of my hopes, my dreams, my desires. As the tension builds my pulse quickens, my body flushes with warmth, and tingles radiate from my core to my extremities. Everything around me fades away. I am wholly immersed, captivated, held prisoner by the prose before me. The story reaches its peak, its crescendo, coming to a conclusion that I could never have foreseen, and yet felt as if it were written within the stars by the Creator herself.

I close the book, sit back in my seat, and close my eyes. Swallowing hard, I work to slow my pulse. I feel light headed, dizzy, and honestly, aroused.

It is the best story I have ever read. It could quite possibly be the best story ever written.

The world comes back into focus as the bus screeches to a halt. I leap to my feet, recognizing my stop. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, I look down at the small black notebook in my hands.

I marvel at it, wondering who could possibly be the owner of such a book, who could have written something as prophetic as this.

If only I could write something half as brilliant.

I run to class with no time to spare and take the seat next to Rachel, offering a smile and a wave that goes unnoticed. As class begins, Professor Eriksmyth strokes his beard thoughtfully while my classmates take their turns, one by one, reading their short stories aloud. One by one, he gives them a thoughtful nod and offers his comments. His critiques are apt, yet severe. He’s not here to pander.

My name is up. I’m perspiring like a sumo wrestler in a sauna. I cast a glance at Rachel. She offers me a consoling smile, sure that I’m about to embarrass myself as much as I did last week.

I look down at my desk where two notebooks lay. One is spiral bound, the edges wrinkled from my sweaty grip, containing mostly doodles and nearly illegible handwriting.

The other…

Before I can talk myself out of it, I palm the small black notebook, relishing the texture beneath my fingertips. I open to the first page and begin reading.

My cadence is that of Sir David Attenborough, but with the tone and intonation of Morgan Freeman. Glorious words pour forth from my mouth, take off into the air, and flutter into the ears, minds, and hearts of my audience. The heavens open before me, light spills down from above, and angelic voices accompany my narration.

When it’s finished, I take a deep breath and look up from the notebook.

Tears streak Professor Eriksmyth’s face, and his chin trembles. Then, he rises from his seat and begins clapping slowly. The rest of the class joins, the clapping increasing in intensity until it’s a full round of applause.

I can do naught but bow my head in humility, accepting the adoration that does not belong to me. My eyes meet Rachel’s; hers are wide, pupils dilated, staring at me as if I possess the key to the Universe. I can only hope to one day possess the key to her dorm.

Professor Erikskmyth dismisses the class abruptly, saying that there’s no more that could possibly be taught that day. Then, he approaches me with great reverence, and asks if he could shake my hand. From there, he leads me to his office.

“You’ve written a work of genius,” he states. “What inspired you?”

I knew what he meant to ask. Where did this come from? How could I possibly write something of this calibre? Why had everything else I’d written up until this moment been such utter shit?

Of course, I had no answer. He took my silence for continued evidence of my genius.

“There’s an award, a short story competition, international, highly regarded. It closes to admissions tomorrow. We need to enter your story into it. The doors this could open for you are endless. The prize money, twenty thousand dollars, merely a taste of what you will accomplish within your literary legacy.”

Twenty… thousand… dollars? I could pay off the remainder of my student loans. I could go on that trip to Thailand. I could take Rachel out, and not look at the prices on the menu.

Hastily, I accept.

The weeks awaiting word from the competition pass in a surreal blur. The Professor is touting me around as his star pupil. Rachel hangs off my arm at all of the social events. My parents, they’re even talking to one another again.

There’s a party, in my honour, awaiting the results that everyone believes will be a foregone conclusion. We all wait with bated breath as the runners-up are announced, and then…

It’s me. I won.

The applause and cheering around me is a dull roar. There’s a high-pitched, tinny sound in the back of my mind, like cilia dying after a rock concert. The world tilts and shifts, and I shake my head, trying to stay grounded.

Professor Eriksmyth pulls me to my feet and takes me around the room, introducing me to literary agents, editors, screenwriters, all eager to make my acquaintance.

“Fantastic work—“

“Can’t wait to see more—“

“Let me know when you finish your novel—“

I stumble home, intoxicated despite having not had a drop of liquor. The future that's opened up to me I hadn't known I wanted, yet now it was all I wanted. The pressure to perform was mounting. I couldn't let them all down. Not after this.

Eager to get started, I open a blank document on my computer. My fingers hover over the keys, but make no movements toward the letters. I will them to move, but all I can manage is a feeble tremble.

I change tactics, reaching for my spiral notebook and a pen. Sometimes the words come easier by hand. My pen rests on the paper and I try to force myself to write something, anything, but I can't. My mind is completely blank.

A tense ball of anxiety forms in the pit of my stomach. I scramble over to my bedside table and dig through the drawer for the little black notebook. If anything could inspire my creativity, it's that story.

With blunt fingers, I flip open the cover.

The pages are blank.

My heart thuds in my chest and I’ve forgotten how to breathe as I flip from blank page to blank page, searching for a story that no longer exists. I stare at the book open in my lap, struggling to understand what this means.

Coppery red ink pools from the centre of the book and scrawls across the page, forming ghostly letters. My whole body grows cold as I read the words aloud before they disappear a second later.

"The punishment for the ultimate literary crime is the ultimate literary death."