The following is a work of fiction. Any similiarity between this story and another is purely coincedental. Because no respectable writer worth her salt would lift characters and plotpoints from a living writer. That's just reprehensible and such conduct would surely earn scorn of the whole of the literary world.
Just kidding, it's a work of parody. I can totally do this and if someone tries to sue me it will just make me rich and famous.
The Perfect Cherry
A work of Fanfic
I was running as fast as I could through the crowded sidewalks of Manhattan, dodging pedestrians and hopping over any rain soaked debris that stood in my path as fast as my rubber boots would carry me. I had a full submission clenched in my soggy little paws, which had to be delivered by noon and according to the big clock ahead I had only six minutes. Six minutes to get through a door, sprint through a lobby, find an elevator, scratch and claw my way into said elevator, ride it to floor whatever, and drop this manuscript into the hands of one Christian Grey, publishing tycoon extraordinaire before noon, or the poor sad thing would be rejected on a technically with no chance of moving forward in the Grey’s Next Big Thing Award for literary excellence.
The kicker is that this wasn’t even my manuscript.
It belonged to my BFF, Cherry, who should have snail mailed it days ago except that a freak Zumba accident had rendered her bedridden in our four-star hotel suite all week. So I waited for a break in her distressed sobbing to offer to drop it off for her. After all, it was her rich-ass parents that were paying for this trip to the Big Apple, and so far I was the only one who was having any fun. Cherry immediately brightened up and after thanking me profusely, informed me that I had to get it there by noon.
This was three miles and forty-five minutes ago.
Damn it, Cherry, that’s cutting it awful close!
But running and bobbing through the streets of Manhattan is a lot better than having to listen to Cherry cry for the next twenty years about how she could have been the Next Big Thing if only someone had managed to get her finalist packet in on time...
Oh, hell. I’m always happy to do a favor for a friend. So long as they remember they owe me one in return.
So with that, I flung myself through the glass doors of the flagship building for Grey Enterprises and ran like a fiend through the sandstone lobby. A perky blonde attendant looked up with a critical eye at the ill fit of Cherry’s imported raincoat and wrap dress.
Hey, I pack light when I’m supposed to be on vacation.
“I have a contest entry,” I panted.
“The Next Big Thing?”
I nodded, my heart still racing.
“Mr. Grey is accepting entries through that door on the left.
No elevator? Hallelujah! I might actually make the deadline with a few minutes to spare.
I started walking and the blonde gave me a cross look. “You need to sign in.”
“I’m…just… dropping this down the hall.”
Her eyes darken. “You need to sign in and show me a picture ID. Mr. Grey is not kind to people who disrespect his rules.”
Fair enough. I handed her my drivers license, picked up a pen, and scrawled my name on the clipboard.
“Your parents named you Fannie?”
I sighed. “Sadly enough.”
“The return address on your package says Cherry Bentley.”
“I’m delivering it for a friend.”
“Mr. Grey was very specific that only the contest entrants are allowed to deliver their entries to him in person.”
“And by friend, I mean pen name. I like to think of my writing persona as a separate entity,” I dropped my voice. “We writers are weird like that.”
She accepted this without question. “Go in.” She glanced at the dainty gold watch on her wrist. “But hurry. That package needs to be in his hands within the next forty-five seconds or you’re disqualified.”
I scooped up the package and ran as fast as my legs would carry me to the door she had indicated. The floor inside was made of heavily waxed cherry-cola hardwood which, I mention only because my wet boots lifted off like rockets the second they made contact with it and I went flying like a carom across full length of the room until I crashed feet first into an antique credenza, with my coat trailed behind me, my skirt up around my neck, and the pages of Cherry’s manuscript raining down on me like tickertape.
I pushed the skirt down in a belated attempt to hide my Hello Kitty panties, and looked up at the clock.
The astonishingly young man at the desk steepled his fingers and eyeballed me without amusement.
“That is certainly one way to get my attention.”
[To Be Continued]