Submitted for the April 2024 prompt: Meta-Sci-Fi

Standing by the window of his high-rise apartment, Bartleby stared down at the street. Ground cars zipped by below, while long-legged tripods gingerly traipsed around them. In the gathering gloom, a single police drone loitered nearby.

 

Raindrops started to strike the glass as he sat down at his desk. Glancing at the framed photograph of a smiling young woman next to his writing pad, he sighed. “Damn the rain”.

 

He waited. It would come, just like always. Then he started to write.

 

Almost an hour later, the sound of the phone jolted him back to reality. Lighting a cigarette, he let it ring for a while before grudgingly picking it up.

 

“Bart? This is Sheila. I apologize for disturbing you today, but this is important.

We need to talk about two of your stories, uh, ‘Stellar Collapse’ and ‘Lost Horizon’.”

 

He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. What’s on your mind? Not trying to renege on payment, are you?”

 

There was a brief pause. “This is serious, Bart. Don’t you know what’s happening? Turn on your television.”

 

It was the same news on every channel. Disaster. An orbital shuttle had crashed, and seventy-two passengers and crew were presumed dead along with hundreds on the ground. The reporter said the pilot became disoriented after the AI failed and lost control. It was unprecedented and an almost statistical impossibility.

 

But for him, it felt like old news, because word for word it was exactly what he had written in “Lost Horizon”. And the doomed shuttle was the same one they had taken on their honeymoon less than two years ago.

 

“Bart, are you still there? You gave us this shuttle story last week. Now, I thought it was just a coincidence when the Stellar Exchange went bankrupt like you scripted it. It was your former employer, after all, so maybe you had inside info, but still it seemed amazingly prescient. Great for sales, I thought. But now this. Can you explain it?”

 

Switching it off, he replied, “I didn’t know. They are just stories, like everything else.”

 

“Bart, your output used to be really uplifting and optimistic, like ‘Space Race’. But since, uh, last year, your style has changed. And you aren’t writing just fiction now. This is real.”

 

Leaning back in his chair he said, “Did you ever wonder where I get my story ideas?”

 

“Huh? No, not really. I always just assumed writers were just natural fabulists or else plucked their ideas from the bottom of a bottle. Why?”

 

“I’ll tell you my secret, Sheila. I don’t write fiction. I don’t try to write anything at all. But to the best of my knowledge, everything I’ve given you has been absolutely true.”

 

She laughed. “Ok. So, are you trying to tell me that, for example, there really was a US President named Jimmy Nixon and America landed on the Moon in the 60s? I must have missed that in history class. Be serious, Bart.”

 

“Richard, not Jimmy”, he said. “Jimmy Carter came into office after the Apollo missions were canceled. They didn’t lose to the Soviets”, he finished bitterly.

 

“Explain it to me like I’m five then”, she said, “because what you’re saying doesn’t make any sense. How do you write non-fiction about events that never happened?”

 

“It’s actually quite simple. I sit at my desk with my pad, I listen, and I write. That’s all. I don’t think, I just feel. The stories are always about nobodies. Even the main character in “Space Race” was just a schlubby writer dreaming of beating the Russians to the Moon. And I’ve never written a novel because I always lose contact after an hour. These stories come from somewhere else, they don’t come from me.”

 

“Bart, if what you’re telling me is true, then it’s more than that. What you’ve written over this last year has been a lot darker than before and isn’t just about some other reality. It sounds crazy, but you’re two for two in this one and I can’t explain it.”

 

He shook his head. “No, you haven’t listened to what I’ve said. I don’t create, I just collaborate. And since Margaret died, I haven’t done anything else.”

 

“Bart, humor me for a moment. No more stories about market failures or shuttle accidents. And instead of tales from other dimensions, create something simple and hopeful about this one. Dictate instead of just taking dictation. What have you got to lose?”

 

Cradling the phone with his shoulder, he reached for the pad once more and waited. Images and sounds soon flooded his mind, but he ignored them. Instead, he wrote, “The rain finally stopped, and the sun came out. And Bartleby was given a handsome advance by Sheila for his new novel today.”

 

A sudden warmth filled the room as the rain clouds vanished, replaced by the sun.

 

“Oh, before I forget, I have some good news”, she said. “The company has decided to give you an advance for your new novel.”

 

He sat bolt upright. “My new novel?”

 

She laughed and said, “That’s odd. I didn’t know you were working on anything like that. Any idea what it’s going to be about?”

 

Looking outside at the sun-drenched skyline he said, “Let me call you back” and hung up the phone. He wrote some more before placing the pad back on his desk.

 

After a moment, he heard the door quietly open behind him. There was the sound of someone treading softly across the floor before he felt her hand on his shoulder.

 

His voice breaking, he said, “Hello, Margaret. I’ve decided to finally write that book I always talked about.”

 

In a sleepy voice his wife replied, “Oh, really? Something exciting and futuristic?”

 

“It’s about us. And no, not science fiction this time. Just a true story about two normal people in love. And I’ve already thought of an ending.”

 

“They both lived happily ever after.”