Stand Alone Story

It was a day like any other day and I was alone in my office writing my stories when a woman, obviously a disturbed, angry woman walked in my place of business.

"May I help you?"

"I need a story," she said with fisted hands and talking through clenched teeth. She was seething and a little vein was protruding above her right eyebrow.

"Won't you have a seat, Miss..."

"You don't need to know my name and I'd rather stand and pace, if you don't mind."

Obviously, she was upset by what or by whom I had no idea. Perhaps she was in an abusive relationship. Perhaps, this story was her salvation out of that. Perhaps, she thought that I was more than a writer and could help her by writing a mere story. Perhaps, she was just as she appeared...crazy.

Surely, I'm no magician and I didn't need to be a psychiatrist to realize that this woman was insane. I only write stories and there is only so much that I can do for people by telling tall tales. By her appearance, she needed more than I could give her. She needed daily dosages of anti-depressant medication, a straightjacket, and a rubber room somewhere quiet.

"What stories do you—"

"Stand alone story," she said loud enough to scare my dog, Polo, and for him to seek shelter in his bed. "I want you to write me a stand alone story."

"You're scaring my dog lady and I don't know if you're familiar with a purebred Rat Terrier, but you don't want to scare them. They, uhm, tend to lash out...with their teeth and for such a little dog, they have very powerful jaws. They are a tough and tenacious little breed of dog that—"

"I don't care about your fucking little dog," she said setting off Polo to barking.

"Easy boy. Easy. It's okay. The nice woman is just playing. Go lie down, Polo. Go ahead. Good dog."

She reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the West in the Wizard of Oz when she grabbed Toto from Dorothy and said, "I'll get you, my pretty and your little dog, too!"

"Write me a stand alone story," she said again spitting out her words, as she spoke and depositing a crisp, new hundred dollar bill on my desktop. Obviously, she knew my rates without me telling her. Obviously, for a hundred bucks, she wanted my standard 750-1,000 word story, but I figure this story may be a bit longer to hopefully assuage her and avoid an altercation.

I was afraid to ask for fear of antagonizing her and making her angrier than she was already, but I did. I had no choice. I had no idea what a stand alone story was. To me, there's fiction and there's non-fiction. Never have I heard anyone use the term of stand alone stories.

"I'm sorry, stand alone story? I don't know what you mean by a stand alone story. Is that a story were you are alone and standing as opposed to alone and sitting or alone and lying down?"

"You think you're funny. You think you're so smart. You're so smugly arrogant that's what you are. No wonder everyone hates you?"

"Hates me? They do? What do you mean by that? Everyone loves me," I said thinking about the stories that I just wrote that helped my previous customers Dorothy, Betty, Peggy, and Mary find their love mates. "Have you been talking to my relatives?"

"You know what I mean Boston-fiction-writer."

In the way she said my name with her reddening face and eyes bulging behind her Granny style eyeglasses sent chills down my spine.

"I don't know who you are nor do I care. I don't want any trouble. Perhaps you should leave."

"I figured as much."

"What? What did you figure?"

"I knew you couldn't write a stand alone story."

"I'll write you any story you'd like so long as you tell me if it's a fictional or non-fiction story."

"It doesn't matter if it's fictional or non-fiction," she said, "so long as it's a stand alone story."

"Rather than belabor this, Miss, perhaps if you told me what a stand alone story is, I could then—"

"All you know how to write are multi-chapter stories. That's all you do is break up your stories into bite sized chapters."

"Actually, that's not true. I've written hundreds of stories that are not multi-chapter stories. Moreover, I'd hardly call a 3,000-4,000 word chapter bite sized, whatever that is. Moreover, I've never read a book that wasn't broken into chapters. You really need to have chapters to maintain the interest of the reader and breaking it up moves the action along."

"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up, asshole," she said.

Wow, where'd that anger came from, I have no idea. I gave her a hard look and then I suspected who she was.

"Oh, I get it. Stand alone stories. Of course, you must be one of my crazy, I mean, devoted fans from Literotica. Which one are you, the one from Australia, Michigan or Canada?"

"You don't need to know where I'm from," she said pulling out a gun. "All you need to know is where you're going to go, if you don't start typing me a stand alone story."

"Okay, okay, calm down. Put the gun down. I've been typing while we've been talking."

"You think I'm crazy enough to put down my gun."

"Listen, I can't write with a gun to my head."

"Try," she said.

"Okay, okay, just point the gun away from me and I'll write you a stand alone story," I said as I typed. "No, please don't point the gun at my dog. I wouldn't even make eye contact with him, if I were you. He has a short fuse." Polo started growling, "Easy boy, easy."

I didn't want my dog getting rabies by biting this rabid person. Moreover, I didn't want my dog shot by this lunatic. I'll just write her a stand alone story and maybe that will satisfy her.

"How can you write a stand alone story if you don't even know what it is?"

"Aren't all stories stand alone? I mean, all good writers start from the middle," I said in defense of my writing style. "A writer seldom begins at the beginning of a story. Then, as the story progresses, a writer adds what information that is needed for the reader to follow the story. A good writer would never—"

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up," she said threatening me with the gun again. "You're not scoring any points with me, loser. Do you think this is a contest, Freddie? This is real life. This is not a game."

I had no idea what the Hell she was talking about. I just wanted to give her a stand alone story and maybe she'd leave.

"Why don't you tell me what your definition is of a stand alone story?"

"It's a story that you can understand without having to read what happened before, moron. There needs to be a beginning and an ending."

There she goes with the name calling again. Yet, as soon as she said that, I printed two copies of the story, this stand alone story that I had typed as we talked.

"Here you go, Miss. Here is your stand alone story."

She pocketed her gun, accepted the story from me, and read the pages as she walked out of my office.

"Yes, this is good. This story is a stand alone story. Thank you, Bostonfictionwriter. Thank you. Maybe I was wrong about you after all."

"Have a nice life," I said running to lock the door behind her.