“Why is there no money? Why is there no profit? Why are you here?”
Cenny Oughterly raged. His brothers raking millions in India or China, but his dad set him in charge of these underdogs, who published the New Great York Magazine, NGYM, which no one would pay for. Others grew rich on spices and slaves, but he?
The Irish servant lit his pipe. Anybody who stumbled at such a task would lose their place - in a flash.
“We don’t pay the authors enough, the popular ones. They have sales, even in the poor years.” The young one, the beginner, blushed with embarrassment, and barely completed his sentence.
All the more experienced jumped.
“They don’t cost us anything anyway!”,
“We’ve been doing it this way. Why do it different?”
The cacophony of voices deafened Cenny.
He roared: “All, starting today, are making money only! The measure of it is the profit of the East India Company - as much as they get over per hundred shares yearly, or more.
And, once and for all, if something brings money, if it makes money, we want it; that’s why we started this. If some pisser is making more, scribbling elsewhere, kick our idiot and take him. If the whore in the next street gets more than ours, kick her ass and call that whore; the more money she makes, the more I want to come in her. Clear?!”
NGYM first golden rule: More people you call, more will come. Cenny Oughterly, Esq.
“It’s war, Sir!” Mike, what a faggot name, was obsequious as usual.
“We know that, we are in a shelter, for God’s sake! What has that to do with our magazine going to a shithole?”
“Relax, Sheldon, relax, please. ¨
Modesty was always helpful; as she was now, in the dark of the tunnel, massaging him where it mattered.
“Wwill there be lay-offs?”
Elisabeth - the oldest were scared the most, as they should be. At least they don’t have to fight, cowards.
“Give me solutions, not questions!” When shouting he forgot to be afraid, for a little while.
“What if…” The poetry editor hesitated.
“What if you lose your job, you mean?” To the jugular.
“Let them pay, Sir, if you wish so…” Margot had an idea, what a novelty.
“Let them pay for our management of their letters. It’s work, isn’t it? Work costs.”
That… that was not bad. That, that was a good idea!
“Perfect! In the future, all who want to print their unbearable and scuzzy works should attach a fee, or we will not consider it. You, Cyrill, work out the procedure, you, Margot, the amount of the fee and the public notice, with your signature on it. This, this will bring us the needed cash!!”
Modesty speeded her strokes and… yeah! He hoped, the stains can be washed before the alarm ended.
“This will be a new era for our literary magazine!”
NGYM second golden rule: God loves nothing more than modesty. Sheldon McShea.
Dear NGYM director, Ms/Mrs/SRM/hiers/huer/here/there, Ena Lithye!
We have, as per instructions, implemented a thorough research concerning the libelous accusation - that your company is profiting charging of about 30K per year from the »starving artists«. After a thorough checking, we can assure you, that among those concerned, that is the owners and editors, you have in the case of submission fees, their total support.
As some media researched mailed us the questionnaire, instead of e-mailing it, we have been able to record not only their answers, but also their editors’ notes on the margins; and are therefore proceeding all of them to you, as follows:
“It is a handling fee.” The Un-American Deconstructive Review. Do not apply, if sober.
“It’s a reading fee.” Under Teen 15. Delivery at night only.
“Submissions have never been free.” SharesOfDough. Down-to-the-earth; where my missing husband is.
“They keep writers in check”. The South of the Southernmost Angle. I hafha three teeth left, see?
“They reduce the workload”. The New Puritan Hymen. God wants you to pay us.
“Or you can subscribe us for 5 years.” The O-Hay-view-from-behind. Not A Papist Paper.
“To be sure, you are the best.” The Montpellier Review. We speak Franchesous, oui?
“Don’t flush us down with this.” South-North-East and West Biennial. What does Bi... mean?
“You can instead till my garden”. What’s-always-on-my-mind Quarterly. Forget, I habla Pedro now.
“Beginners’ pains; I had them, meeting my uncle.” The O-Hay-you-from-behind triennial. Send to the Colon Hospital, not to the front.
“So what? It’s not a marathon?” The Irish-serving-the-English. Submission is a victory for us.
“We will have you!” The uncommon blue mountain harper from the coast. And we will not pay you.
Poetic research Inc.
bill 69.696,90 dollars
NGYM third golden rule: The American way is the way of poetry”, Ena Lithye.
This is an unauthorized and unofficial transcription from our reconnaissance patrol to the war ruins of the Metropole. One copy only, the original message and all traces of it, destroyed.
“We met contacts, sir!”
“Contacts? The city is dead!”
“Yes, sir, but we still have contacts, sir.”
“Don’t know, sir.”
“It’s only in the middle of the night, sir. And only at some locations, we did identify them, sir.”
“Previous, well, they are all previous aren’t they, sir, so, in previous Poetry Lane, The Boulevard of essays, Vignette Road, Short story Circus, The Novel walk and Written House Circle. Sir.”
“Look like people, but are not people. Like, made of fog or something white. Can walk through them, but… it spooks boys, sir. Disappear at zero one hour, Sir.”
“Are they communicating?”
“No, well, yes, repeat few words, all the time same, sir.”
“Which words, soldier?”
“I don’t know, but it sounds like: hell, eternity, fee, fee, submission, damned,”
“End the mission. All you report to Onomatopoetical Re-wiring Association, at once. It’s an order.”
“That’s the nuthouse, sir?!”
“Report there! Now!”
“My order for obligatory submission fees is rescinded, as of now!”
“Yes Sir! At once Sir!”
“Cancel my poker evening. I will be at the church.”