{CROSSWAYSNET}

She hit ‘snooze’ for the third time but her bladder trumped her plans. With a groan, she swung her feet to the cool oak boards, still slick from her 7th waxing this week.

Her cellphone erupted with the bridge to ‘Imagine’. She stabbed to disconnect. Her numb middle finger hit ‘speakerphone’ instead.

Without waiting a beat the voice blared at her – “Have you seen yet?? Have you heard?? I can’t login for another hour!! Finalists ONLY until 8am. WHAT’s HAPPENING???”

She gathered a breath, her vocal chords raw. So sore. When had she stopped cleaning and started crying? When had she stopped crying into her pillow? An hour ago, maybe?…

“Uh… no. I haven’t looked.”

“WHY THE HECK NOT?? This is it, Sylvie! THE BIG TIME!! Get to it PRONTO, girl! And call me first, of course!!”

“Shower first, Sis.”

“Well, make it short! Whatchergonna do if you WIN?!”

“Yeah,” Sylvie answered flatly, carefully pressed the ‘end’ key. She removed the phone’s battery and laid out the pieces neatly, perpendicular to the edge of the nightstand, of course. She proceeded with bedmaking and a four-corner inspection. No tape measure this time. It was in the kitchen… still off limits. She compared the length of the gap from quilt to floor with a bookmark and headed for the bathroom.

A sudden jolt stopped her. Did I mop the hall yesterday or not? She did a thorough mental inventory of the last 24 hours. Kitchen? All surfaces, four times. Living room? Check. Bathroom? Only twice – vermin risk. But the hallway floor?

Sylvie ran the inventory three more times – not a single instance of hall cleaning. Was I that distracted? Dread overtook the panic. Do I even have safe shoes in this room? She scrambled around the bedroom looking for the ‘good’ slippers, smooth soles, easily disinfected. Nowhere. Where are they? They were in their tray in the pantry soaking before the kitchen distracted her. The tears welled. The first teardrop fell from her quivering lip, hitting the floor. Now THIS room needs decontamination!

In desperation, she skidded along dragging the rug by her changing table and shuffled down the hallway. She passed her office nook, looming in dimness to the right. Disinfecting spray and sani-wipes next to the keyboard, just as she’d placed them after the kitchen frenzy. The screen saver of mountain springs dissolved to high-elevation glacier runoff. Her sister thought it would settle her nerves before her writing sessions. All it ever did was remind Sylvie to double-filter the bottled water before pouring into sanitized containers placed on disinfectant wipes in the fridge.

The Rule:  Never approach the computer until thoroughly and ritually clean. Every body surface scrubbed twice with disinfecting wipes then soaps and shampoos. Sylvie left the shower more raw than usual. She lifted the second towel in the stack to dry herself. Then the one – and only – look into the mirror. She refused to look closely at the eyes.

She dressed in morning whites, slowly placing her second set of slippers on her feet. Rising from the bathtub edge she faced the hallway again. No warm glow from the skylight to brighten the path. Darker grays mottled the way . Thunder clouds plodded across the sky.

Dead man walking. Make it to the kitchen and brew the tea…

Sylvie’s robe brushed the office chair as she passed, touching the mouse cord. The screensaver stopped and her inbox flashed to life. Contest Winners Announcement! stared back from line one. Sylvie froze. Uncontrollable dread and anger seized her. If Susan hadn’t sent the manuscript without permission this never would have happened. All the years of ‘you’re the best writer I’ve ever read’ and ‘you NEED to let someone read this!’ and ‘if you don’t let me take this to an agent you’re going to drive ME crazy’… it all came crashing down on Sylvie’s brain. She grabbed the disinfectant and sprayed the mouse. She clicked the link firmly enough to break the button.

‘Dear Miss Anton,

‘I cannot thank you enough for the opportunity to review your work. Of the thousands of first-time author submissions, yours rose to the top. Our editorial board and guest judges had the unenviable task of selecting the winner of this year’s Breakout Novelist Award. All six of our finalists will undoubtedly attract much attention from agents and publishers the world over.

‘But in your case, let me be the first to say what others are sure to repeat – your work Coming Out stands apart. Compelling, haunting and deeply moving, it is our choice for Grand Prize. Documents will arrive this morning by courier to explain next steps in the awards process. Pack your bags, Sylvie! You’re about to see the world as a renowned and high-awarded PUBLISHED author!!

‘With sincerest congratulations,


‘Mildred Van Self
Oceans Publishing Group
London – Johannesburg – New York – Sydney’

A deep breath. The first since she sat. No panic now. Just a deathly calm. She continued to the kitchen surveying the scene – on the counter  the electric kettle and grandmother's china cup with the teabag arranged just so. All in order. She stared as the kettle reached a disinfecting boil, used a sanitized towel to pour, counted to 90 silently for a proper steep and 90 more for a proper cool. Sylvie raised a perfect 190-degree Lady Grey and sipped slowly; deliberately; painfully. Once was enough. Sylvie calmly placed the teacup on the saucer at right angles, as her grandmother had taught her. She removed the letter addressed to her sister from the drawer and placed it on the cup.

Sylvie turned to survey the room a final time and looked up at last night's addition to the stout ceiling fan. "Heads will spin when they hear about THIS!" said the writer’s voice in dark pun to the dark space within her. Title of the great unwritten sequel? IRONY In A Thousand Words. She mounted the barstool, fixed the knot to the back of her neck kicking out the leg.