PREVIEW: The Agent
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The LOST GENRE GUILD
Biblical Speculative Fiction
| Adam Graham's short story "The Agent" can be found in Light at the Edge of Darkness along with 26 other stories of Biblical speculative fiction.
Read more about the author, Adam Graham. |
I got in my ’91 Buick LeSabre, started it and pulled out of the parking lot. I checked
the rearview mirror before changing lanes and cursed. The car was spitting black
smoke again. It belonged in a junkyard, but still managed to run. If I could get Sal
Ramirez on my side, I could drive a new Buick.
Half his writers stank. High school kids I’d tutored could out-write Sal’s clients. Old
Gruening had never been better than average to start with, but in his latter years, he’
d grown sloppy. That’s what happens when you know you can submit your used toilet
paper as a manuscript and a publisher will grab it up and sell 200,000 copies.
Sal’s other writers weren’t as bad, but that didn’t say much. Sal’s writers might write
crap, but he was the master of selling it to publishers and promoting it. A few years
back, I’d made the connection that the six most popular fiction authors in the world
had the same agent.
I’d wanted him to be my agent. Young and naïve, I barged into his office. Most big-
time agents would have called security or more likely had their secretary do it.
Ramirez looked at me. “Kid, I like you, but there’s only one of me and I have as many
clients as I can handle. However, if I have an opening, call me.”
I wasn’t too happy, and did end up getting another agent. I’d fired that bum last
week. Three years and all I had were fifteen magazine articles, and only ten of those
paid. Now, I was going to get a professional.
Only an idiot would send a query letter. Hundreds of those would be going to Sal
Ramirez soon enough; a personal approach was needed. But, was I being too personal?
Sal Ramirez’s palatial residence loomed before me. Did I really think I could ring the
doorbell and a man worth millions would let me in? No doubt, he had people to
answer the door, not to mention security systems to protect him from dangerous
nuts. I could end up in jail.
I cursed my timidity. This was a chance of a lifetime. What’s the worst thing that
could happen? I’d get fired from that coffee shop and kicked out of my dinky
apartment? Even that was unlikely. I’d take off as soon as someone threatened to call
the police.
I walked up the path to Ramirez’s house, my breath visible in the cold night air.
Gargoyles lined the path. I’d dreamed about this. A house like this. High end vehicles
like the ones that must be in the six-car garage.
It could all be mine.
Writers were the most cursed lot on Earth, writing more novels than could possibly be
published and read. My days of submitting to short story contests, or hoping for some
$15 check to come and justify the hours I spent and the money I sacrificed were
going to be over. A new life lay just beyond that door.
the rearview mirror before changing lanes and cursed. The car was spitting black
smoke again. It belonged in a junkyard, but still managed to run. If I could get Sal
Ramirez on my side, I could drive a new Buick.
Half his writers stank. High school kids I’d tutored could out-write Sal’s clients. Old
Gruening had never been better than average to start with, but in his latter years, he’
d grown sloppy. That’s what happens when you know you can submit your used toilet
paper as a manuscript and a publisher will grab it up and sell 200,000 copies.
Sal’s other writers weren’t as bad, but that didn’t say much. Sal’s writers might write
crap, but he was the master of selling it to publishers and promoting it. A few years
back, I’d made the connection that the six most popular fiction authors in the world
had the same agent.
I’d wanted him to be my agent. Young and naïve, I barged into his office. Most big-
time agents would have called security or more likely had their secretary do it.
Ramirez looked at me. “Kid, I like you, but there’s only one of me and I have as many
clients as I can handle. However, if I have an opening, call me.”
I wasn’t too happy, and did end up getting another agent. I’d fired that bum last
week. Three years and all I had were fifteen magazine articles, and only ten of those
paid. Now, I was going to get a professional.
Only an idiot would send a query letter. Hundreds of those would be going to Sal
Ramirez soon enough; a personal approach was needed. But, was I being too personal?
Sal Ramirez’s palatial residence loomed before me. Did I really think I could ring the
doorbell and a man worth millions would let me in? No doubt, he had people to
answer the door, not to mention security systems to protect him from dangerous
nuts. I could end up in jail.
I cursed my timidity. This was a chance of a lifetime. What’s the worst thing that
could happen? I’d get fired from that coffee shop and kicked out of my dinky
apartment? Even that was unlikely. I’d take off as soon as someone threatened to call
the police.
I walked up the path to Ramirez’s house, my breath visible in the cold night air.
Gargoyles lined the path. I’d dreamed about this. A house like this. High end vehicles
like the ones that must be in the six-car garage.
It could all be mine.
Writers were the most cursed lot on Earth, writing more novels than could possibly be
published and read. My days of submitting to short story contests, or hoping for some
$15 check to come and justify the hours I spent and the money I sacrificed were
going to be over. A new life lay just beyond that door.
The Lost Genre Guild's mission is to promote quality works of Biblical Speculative Fiction (spec-fic)
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
I CURSED THE DAY I met him. But, it was my doing.
The literary world mourned the great Theodore Gruening’s
passing from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
A girl sat in front of my counter. “He saved my life!”
I put the latte in front of her. Her tears dripped into it. What a
waste of a latte. Never mind that, what a waste of a good body.
Old Man Gruening profited on gullible people seeking answers to
great universal questions in science fiction novels.
Spare me the groupies, but I wanted to replace Gruening. I put
my apron down and hit a button on my register to end my shift
at the Coffee House. I walked past the mourning groupies and
headed out the door. Unlike Gruening, I didn’t write much
about space, and I actually had talent. I just wasn’t getting paid
for it. One man held the key to my future. Frank Gruening’s
agent, Sal Ramirez.
The literary world mourned the great Theodore Gruening’s
passing from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
A girl sat in front of my counter. “He saved my life!”
I put the latte in front of her. Her tears dripped into it. What a
waste of a latte. Never mind that, what a waste of a good body.
Old Man Gruening profited on gullible people seeking answers to
great universal questions in science fiction novels.
Spare me the groupies, but I wanted to replace Gruening. I put
my apron down and hit a button on my register to end my shift
at the Coffee House. I walked past the mourning groupies and
headed out the door. Unlike Gruening, I didn’t write much
about space, and I actually had talent. I just wasn’t getting paid
for it. One man held the key to my future. Frank Gruening’s
agent, Sal Ramirez.
