《Arbitraria》


 Prologue

    Ralph Watkins stared at his mortal foe with hatred wrinkling his eyes. ¡°Damn you,¡± he whispered to that enemy, knowing fully well that his words went unheard¡­ his writing study was entirely empty, save for Ralph himself, his overheating laptop, and the miserable company of his ever-present adversary¡­ the blinking, vertical cursor of his word processor.


    ¡°Damn you to hell,¡± Ralph repeated to the cursor. It blinked in taunting reply, still sitting at the top left of an open, white expanse. Page 1 of 1, 0 words.


    Ralph wiped his sweaty hands against his jeans and then pulled at his fingers, savoring the crackling pops they issued. His attention wandered to scrutinizing the roughness of the back of his hands, noting a small scratch that he hadn¡¯t before seen on the left one. His mind replayed through the day¡ªthe idle occupation that could pass as ¡°a day,¡± at least¡ªand he spent the next two minutes searching those memories for the offending moment, a possible source for the mystery scratch.


    His watch buzzed, jolting him back to the present¡­ he realized with a twitchy frown that his mind had been wandering yet again. He turned his wrist to check the display: a picture of a pillbottle appeared on the smartwatch¡¯s display, triggering yet another curse directed at the blinking line. If the first two cursings were angry, this third was weary, the fight already fading for a frustrated tiredness.


    As had become his ritual of late, the watch¡¯s reminder meant the wadded baggie was yanked from his pockets, and the single, powder-white tablet was dumped into his hand. He swallowed it without water, shivering at the chalky path it left as it made its gentle fall downwards. As it settled, his eyes turned upwards to the ceiling: a drab, sepia-colored expanse that met sepia-colored walls. His desk was dark and sagging, and the corner¡¯s plant, faded and wilting. A sigh rasped from his lips as he surveyed the sleepy bookcases, dusty shelves, and his desk¡¯s yellowing succulent. His study used to be a place where stories would spring to life¡ªwhere adventures unfolded, and new beginnings flowed like water from a tap¡ªbut now, the pills painted the room beige, same as they painted everything beige.


    His stained-wood life was trying¡­ truth be told, he found himself sometimes wondering if his status quo was any better than the problems the pills had been supposed to fix in the first place. They brought him calm, and they kept him grounded, but they also seemed to sap the creativity from his mind; his attention span was reduced to a hummingbird, flitting from distraction to distraction. He used to revel in deep dives of the web, reading whatever dense articles he could get his hands on¡­ now, he hardly had the focus for flash-fiction and web novels, eyes always darting for the next distraction. He¡¯d become chronically bored, and nothing could capture his attention in a world where nothing could thrill him anymore.


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    The cursor blinked impassively, not even having the decency to acknowledge Ralph¡¯s miseries. Ralph unleashed a barrage of swearing until he was sure the blinking cursor was sufficiently contrite. And then, in something of a rarity for Ralph these days, an idea came to mind¡­ it was neither bad nor good, but it might have been enough to break him from the painful inertia of idleness. ¡°Writing is a lot like peeing,¡± one of his old high school teachers had memorably told him. ¡°You just gotta start the business, and then flow takes care of the rest.¡±


    He opened his web browser to Regal Lane, one of his once-favorite writing communities. The notifications bell at the top corner of the page showed no updates for the past eight months, save for a three-week-old comment placed on a chapter posting: ¡°whatever happened to WatTheRalph? Is this story dead?¡±


    There were plenty of reasons to like Regal Lane: the interface was clean, and the community, pleasant¡­ but more importantly than either of those things, it was the author¨Creader interaction he valued, like the comments left on chapters as stories were being weaved. Those comments were to be his salvation¡­ the cure to the ailments of his cure.


    He clicked the button for ¡®new submission,¡¯ and, in seconds, a warm smile came to his face as he fell back into familiar comforts. His fingers were clacking away, the keyboard¡¯s rhythm like music to long-deaf ears. ¡°Readers of Regal Lane,¡± he typed, ¡°I turn to you in my moment of writer¡¯s block¡­ I¡¯d like to try an experiment in storytelling. Here¡¯s the way things will work:¡±


    He thought for a minute, figuring out the best way to structure his plan. ¡°Every time I write a chapter, I¡¯ll wait a day or two for comments to trickle in¡­ the comments you leave will decide what happens next in the story. Think of it like a poll-directed choose-your-own-adventure story, but it¡¯s entirely open ended. Give +rep to the suggestions you like, since I¡¯ll be using whatever gets the most votes.¡±


    He cracked his fingers again before carrying on. ¡°Whatever you propose, I¡¯ll take totally seriously. Our story could be a super serious romance tale, but then, if commenters vote for it, a talking, sentient frog could enter the story as a legitimate love interest, with everything played entirely straight. The direction that the story goes is entirely up to you, dear readers.¡±


    Ralph did a cursory scan through the text, ensuring there were no major typos. And then, with a shrug, he pressed the button to submit, wondering what writing hell he was signing himself up for¡­ but knowing that, in the end, it was his story, and he¡¯d still be able to keep things in control.


    After all, it was just a silly story submitted online¡­ how far out-of-hand could things really go?

 Chapter 1 - Stories

    ¡°Hey mate, this sounds like a fun idea. ive had a rough week of it, failed a big exam, and i could really use a pickmeup. what about just writing a story where the MC wins at most things? A little vicarious success sounds like just the tonic right about now¡± -Posted by JimmyTheSlow, 16 hours ago


    Ralph scratched at his chin, re-reading the one and only comment his post had received. It wasn¡¯t exactly the story start he¡¯d been hoping for¡ªtalk about a vague outline to begin with¡ªbut his writers-block-addled mind offered no alternatives. He¡¯d committed himself to this game, and so he¡¯d weave the man¡¯s tale of success straight to order like a fast-food sandwich.


    A man named Jimmy, Ralph thought. A tale of success. He let the ideas tumble and bounce in his mind like the clothes in a dryer, waiting for something to snag. He could see probable plot directions and discrete scenes, but no compelling-enough whole, no big picture that justified the story¡¯s existence.


    Finally, with a shrug, Ralph set to work. He laid out the scene: Jimmy, a boy of 19 years, attending a state college his family could barely afford. His grades were poor, and if they didn¡¯t improve, Jimmy would have to drop out of school, abandon his dreams.


    Ralph¡¯s fingers flew as he drew himself deeper into the narrative, deftly spinning plot threads like spider¡¯s silk. Jimmy was at a gas station, now, taking shelter from an unexpected hailstorm¡ªdid it even hail ever around here? Ralph made a mental note to investigate how often it hailed in the valley, maybe to update the plot hook later.


    So anyways, hail or not, on a whim Jimmy can¡¯t quite explain, he feels compelled to spend the last five bucks he¡¯s got in his pocket on a lotto ticket. It¡¯s a final, desperate lifeline for a man treading water¡­ and then it happens: he hits it big, raking in a $210 million jackpot¡ªhis days of barely affording school are over.


    Life turns around for our main character. Jimmy gets his degree, gets the girl, opens a trendy start-up, and eventually retires to a private cabin somewhere out in the Colorado mountains. Six chapters, 8,000 words, 100% wish fulfillment¡­ 0% interesting conflict or character development. It was the type of story that younger-Ralph would¡¯ve chucked straight to the recycling bin¡­ but that Ralph was from a time period when writing came easily. Newer-Ralph couldn¡¯t afford to be quite so picky, and maybe JimmyTheSlow wasn¡¯t quite so harsh a critic as Ralph himself.


    With a shrug and a smile that sat half-way between pride and embarrassment, Ralph pressed the ¡®submit story¡¯ button. He sighed wistfully¡­ it had been a long time since he¡¯d been so caught up in writing like that. Sure, the story was garbage, but it at least was heartening to know that he could slip back into¡ª


    with a start, Ralph¡¯s eyes boggled at the time: 4:03 PM. Not only was Ralph going to be late for his shift, but he¡¯d somehow missed the proper time for his medication. Had Ralph been so caught up in the typing that he failed to feel his wristwatch¡¯s vibration?


    He swallowed another chalky white tablet as he threw on his coat and stumbled out the door, noting the pale-blue skies overhead souring to milky thunderclouds. In minutes, his junkyard jalopy puttered towards the post office as fast as its little engine could manage¡ªwhich, admittedly, was barely faster than a spirited jog.


    Cardstock punch card met clock at 4:32 PM; his boss would have words on ¡°the value of punctuality,¡± Ralph was sure. The screech of unoiled wheels announced the arrival of the first cart, and then Ralph began his tedium in earnest. A beige package was lifted, and its label, appraised. Its zip code was punched into the handheld scanner, which beeped its confirmation, and then it told him which shelf to place it in. This one, tube E11B. Ralph set it into the tube, which pulled the package in with a greedy vacuum¡¯s thwump.


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    A new cartful soon came, its wheels like nails on chalkboard. Yet another package was lifted; this one was browner than the last set, flatter, with a waxy paper wrapping. Its zip code was cataloged, the scanner, beeped, and off to tube 6AF2 it went. Thwump.


    ¡°Oh, well aren¡¯t you colorful,¡± Ralph said to the next, emblazoned with a splash of red ink on its cardboard. In minutes, Ralph shuffled over to tube 11A2¡­ he would miss the red color for the rest of his 6-hour shift. With its processing, there would be only more unadorned cardboard ahead, more sepia-tinted brown, a color that followed him more closely than his own shadow.


    Screech. Crinkle. Beep. Thwump. Screech. Crinkle. Beep. Thwump. Screech. Crinkle. Beep. Thwump.


    10:30 PM arrived, but Ralph hardly noticed, so hypnotized by the steady labor of mindless work. It was only when his night-shift replacement put a hand on Ralph¡¯s shoulder that he realized it was time to go home¡­ ¡°Thanks,¡± was all Ralph could find the energy to say to the man relieving him.


    With dragging footsteps and hunched posture, Ralph walked his way through the parking lot. Then, with a furrowing brow, he paused in front of his car. Sure, the thing had always been a beater with more dent than metal, but something was wrong. The surface of his car was pocked all to hell, like someone had stood out there with a hammer and beat at the hood in some mad rampage.


    ¡°Hell of a thing,¡± said a voice behind him. Ralph turned to see a woman also standing in the lot, appraising similar damage to her own car.


    ¡°What the hell happened?¡± Ralph asked. ¡°Who did this?¡±


    ¡°Not who at all,¡± she said. ¡°Hailstorm, if you could believe it. First one to hit the valley in a five decades, they¡¯re saying.¡±


    Ralph stared at her blankly. ¡°In the middle of the summer?¡±


    The woman shrugged in the dark of the parking lot, gesturing at their damaged cars with her chin.


    ¡°Lady, you¡¯re crazy,¡± Ralph said, the irony not lost on him. He then pulled open the barely-still-hinged door and sidled into his car¡ªit was ruined enough already for the hammer¡¯s damage to hardly matter. He drove off without another word to the woman, and as he wound his way down the twisting roads, his hands drummed on the wheel impatiently. ¡°Hail, my ass,¡± he said, wondering who he¡¯d angered enough to inspire an act of vandalism like this.


    Ralph¡¯s writing teacher had told him about flow, that magical state when the story seemed to write itself. Despite Mr. Simpson¡¯s weird analogies to urination, that quasi-magical state he described was a real thing, and it was the place that Ralph used to spend most of his time writing, had spent this morning in. In flow, decisions somehow made themselves. In flow, details spawned out of thin air and materialized into the story like dew onto grass. They weren¡¯t choices¡­ facts were merely discovered and recorded as fast as the fingers could fly.


    It was because of that flow, because of the lack of intentionality, that the word hailstorm never even registered with Ralph. Sure, his little story had involved a man taking shelter from a freak hailstorm, but that detail had left Ralph¡¯s mind the moment the typing cursor had left its paragraph. And now, as he drove home, he passed a fleet of news vans with their bright TV lights swarming a local gas station. Smart-dressed anchors spoke into dozens of lenses, but Ralph could hear none of them as he whizzed by on the road¡­ if he¡¯d rolled down the window, he might have heard them saying things like ¡°this is the store where that fateful ticket was sold¡± and ¡°little is known about the jackpot winner, beyond the fact that he¡¯s a local college student recognized by the cashier.¡±


    But Ralph rolled down no windows, heard no news announcements. He instead pulled his rusting car into his dark garage, climbed his way on aching legs into his sagging bed with its oily bedsheets, pulled out his phone, and noted with a pang of weariness that his story had received but one comment, posted 5 hours ago, and by a commenter that wasn¡¯t even JimmyTheSlow. The only acknowledgement of the labors of Ralph¡¯s miserable day was that single, baffling comment: ¡°Squeeeeeeeeee!¡±


    Ralph rolled over, letting the ennui wrap him tighter than his bedsheets, and he stared at the beige walls until sleep somehow found him.