“Just think. This time next year you’ll be in Iowa,” Charlie grinned. “I-o-wa,” he repeated, making it sound like a foreign country.
I hadn’t told him yet. The rejection from the Writers’ Workshop had come in the mail yesterday. I added it to my growing stack of MFA rejections. “I’ve been thinking it over. Maybe the world doesn’t need another New York City writer. Maybe I’ll just go back to the brokerage.”
“Brokerage,” he spat. “Are you crazy? You’ve got stories to tell.”
I kicked at the ground. “See, that’s the thing. Maybe all the stories have been told.”
“Nah. What’s that they say—that there are only six different plots.”
“Seven, then. Only seven different plots and this world still hasn’t run out of ways of telling them.” He stepped closer, pressing a forefinger to my chest. “But there’s one way that’s missing.”
Beneath his finger, my heart beat on.
This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.