The offal short story collection

 

When the famous writer promised his Ten Tales of Offal, the publisher was delighted, as his publishing house was in a poor way, leaking writers and money.

 

However, the author missed the deadline for the delivery of the first draft of the collection and further deadlines when whooshing past. The publisher was forever apologising to his printers and book distributers, pushing the publication date back and extending his credit.

 

 

Eventually the manuscript arrived. It was short, barely 50,000 words, just eight stories instead of the promised ten.

 

The publisher phoned the author. “What’s this?” he asked. “I’ve already told the bookshops that your collection’s called Ten Tales of Offal. It’s listed on Amazon. There are only eight stories here, what’s your game?”

 

“I’m sorry,” the famous writer said, “but I gave the other two stories to Death.”

 

The publisher had been expecting excuses, he had been prepared to engage with a writer in full bullshit mode, but he hadn’t expected this. “To Death?”

 

“Death came for me, in the night, a few days ago. It was my time he said, I was to come with him. But we got talking and it turns out he wanted something to read, there are no books in the realm of the dead you see.”

 

“Right, so you saw Death and you bought an extension to your life by giving him two short stories. My short stories?”

 

“That’s right. Two stories for an extended life. They’re lost forever to the realm of the dead I’m afraid, not appearing in any collection soon.”

 

The publisher didn’t believe him, tried to persuade him to write new stories, but the famous writer was clear, he had had ten ideas for stories about offal, had written all of them as intended, almost in time for the deadline. He wasn’t writing any more.

 

So the publisher had to go ahead with the book he had, the slim collection of stories, Eight Tales of Offal. At least, he reconciled himself, the famous author had come up with a good excuse, much better than any his other authors ever came up with, one he’d be able to tell decades later at literary lunches.

 

The book was put into production, edited into a publishable form, the artwork was designed – pieces of offal shaped into the figure ‘8’ – 8 Tales of Offal.

 

The new publication date was given to bookshops and distributors, a deal was struck with Amazon, space was set aside in literary journals for adverts and interviews. The publisher’s bank even eased up on the demands when they saw a first print of the book.

 

Then, unexpectedly, a ninth story arrived.

 

“This is too late,” the publisher told the famous author, “the book is all set, the print run is all ready to roll. I can’t change it now.”

 

“I don’t care, it must be delayed, it can’t go ahead without the missing story. The ninth story makes sense of the whole collection, turns it from some stories into a complete work. Without it, frankly the book is a complete waste of everyone’s time.  Besides, I know you need me to make the book work, I’ve got the list of interviews you’ve set up for me, without my support you’ll never market it.”

 

The published tried to placate the author by agreeing that he’d read the story before making a decision. To his great consternation the author was right. The story was brilliant. Without it, frankly, the book was a complete waste of everyone’s time, it turned the collection from a bunch of unrelated stories to a great work of art.

 

He called the printers, cancelled the print run, and arranged a new publication date. He re-hired the editor, commissioned new artwork for the new title (Nine Tales of Offal), all at great expense to the publisher. Expense he could ill afford.

 

Indeed, before the book could be publishers his creditors called in their credit, tired of waiting for an ever-retreating publication date. The publisher was declared bankrupt, the publishing house collapsed, with no interest in the other authors on his books.

 

Rights to the original book, Eight Tales of Offal, were bought by one of the publishers rivals and proved to be a massive success, topping the sales charts in the UK and US for months on end and winning a range of awards. Rights to the book were even sold for a seven figure sum to a film company, though no film ever appeared.

 

The ninth story disappeared. The famous author couldn’t find his hard copy, the one he’d made extensive notes on. He searched his hard drive, his collection of memory sticks with which he backed up all his work twice a week, but there was no copy of the story anywhere. Even the email he had sent to the publisher with the story attached seemed to have been deleted from his account. The writer was a cautious man, though, and sent copies of everything he wrote to seven trusted friends, but, mysteriously, all seven had lost their copy, without being able to account where it might have gone. The author approached the editor and copy editor who had worked on the story, but their copies too were missing.

 

As for the publisher …

 

He had taken the loss of his publishing empire badly. So badly, in fact, that he had killed himself, taking to his grave his copy of the ninth story. He had shot himself in the head with a gnu, a novelty gun given to him by a dyslexic friend.

 

And after shooting himself he sat and waited.

 

As expected, Death appeared.

 

“I’ve got something for you,” he said to Death, and held out the ninth short story.

 

“Ah,” said Death, “I wondered what happened to this. I was promised a second story.”

 

“So he never delivered. He told me he’d written a new one, that he’d fulfilled his contract with you.”

 

“Not until now. You don’t mind if I take this.”

 

Death took the story from the publisher.

 

“So it’s true then. You can only read stories that are lost to the mortal world.”

 

“It is true. All life must be lost to come here, whether human or,” he held up the story, “or paper.”

 

“Well this one’s particularly good, you’ll enjoy it.”

 

“Good. Frankly, the other story wasn’t really worth the price of an extended life, it was a bit, how do you say, corny.”

 

Death raised his great scythe, to sever forever the coil that connected the publisher to the mortal realm.

 

“Wait a moment,” the publisher said calmly. “I have a proposition for you.”

 

Death laughed. “A proposition. You have a proposition for Death. Does it by any chance involve me extending your life.”

 

The publisher shook his head. “Of course it doesn’t. I just killed myself, remember. No, it involves me sharing your domain, dwelling here in the realm of death, rather than going, well, wherever. Frankly I can’t be bothered with gods, you get your fill of them working in publishing, telling you what to do, looking down on you as if you’re the most feeble minion in the multiverse.

 

“Why should I let you share the realm of Death? What could you possibly offer?”

 

“Take me on as your agent. I can identify the best writers, help you trade with them when they die, read through the slush pile so you don’t have to, work out which ones are worth bring to the realm of death and how many days of life you should trade for them.”

 

“It is true,” Death said, “I lack the negotiation skills and literary understanding to make such trades wisely.”

 

And so it was agreed, and Death took on his first employee, a literary agent.

 

Which is why all good writers should keep their very best story hidden away, unpublished, ready to trade with Death when you comes to cut your lifeline and send you from this world.

 

Which story would you offer up?