The Real Reason I Joined The Creative Writers’ Guild: A Fiction

by Kyle Burkett

They used the free pizza as bait. I had hoped for some intellectual conversation with my fellow English majors and a chance to learn about graduate schools from the professors, but danger lay in wait for me at the pizza social in the English faculty lounge.

As I left the stairwell on the fourth floor, two bright smiling faces greeted me. One was Dr. Railsback, the Head of the English Department, and the other I recognized as Brittany Harrison. I had heard her name around other English people, but I didn’t know her at all. Then it happened. That fatal moment that would change my life forever. Dr. Railsback asked, “So, Kyle, are you interested in joining the Creative Writers’ Guild?”

I froze. Could it be true? Was I being invited to join that illustrious club formerly known as the Organization of Creative Writers? I thought about the people I knew who were involved in the group, and the work I had heard them present at poetry slams last year. Tony Christopher was the president last year. He was a really nice guy who wrote amazing poetry about sadomasochistic eroticism. A city boy, he transferred to Denver over the summer. The only other person I knew was James Hogan, Tony’s successor, a young Republican majoring in English Ed. His poems were long and depressing. The most cheerful one I’ve heard so far was about a jack-o-lantern in a psychologist’s office. Then of course there was Brittany, whose verse reminded me of Sylvia Plath in its level of barely suppressed anger. I hesitated. Did I really want to ally myself with these people who seem pleasant enough but produce such depressing poetry? Hmmmmm… I should have run when I had the chance. I guess they teach those Republicans to smell fear at a young age. You see, I didn’t really get to finish all that pondering in the last paragraph. Almost, but not quite. When I made the Brittany-Plath connection, I was knocked to the ground. I tried to fight back, but I had broken my right arm three weeks earlier and it was still in a cast. James had my left arm twisted behind my back in no time, and with my cheek pressed to the cold tile he hissed in my ear, “Join the Guild or I’ll break your other arm.”

“James, that’s no way to get new members,” Brittany reprimanded. The two hundred pounds of conservativism got off my back and I slowly got to my feet, only to find that Brittany had rolled up her sleeves to reveal her Rosie the Riveter biceps and had a small bunny by the throat. “Join the Guild or Thumper here gets it.” I guess that wasn’t very effective for getting new members either. I could now see, around the corner, three of four rabbits in the hall with their heads twisted off, across from the cages of live rabbits, hopping around and eating lettuce, completely oblivious to the fate that awaited them at the hands of the Creative Writers’ Guild.

Afraid what Dr. Railsback would do if I hesitated again, I asked, “Where do I sign?” Dr. Railsback produced a parchment scroll and unrolled just enough for me to see the line at what I assumed was the bottom. With trembling fingers I pulled a pen out of my jeans pocket. “Oh wait,” he said, “Use this.” He produced a needle and pricked my finger. Then he squeezed it to make sure I bled on the needle. When it was about half coated in the blood, he handed the needle back to me. I don’t deal well with blood, especially my own. I could feel myself starting to faint. I signed the scroll quickly and slid to the floor. As I lost consciousness, I could hear James, Brittany, and Dr. Railsback chuckling gleefully. “Now his soul is ours!”

*

The bright light hurt my eyes. I was in some sort of courtroom. The light was coming from the judge, who was wearing white instead of black robes. The prosecution was wearing a black double-breasted suit and a conservatively moderate red tie. Very neat, very professional. “Your Exaltedness,” he was saying, “I have a contract here for the soul of this mortal, signed in his own blood. DNA testing has confirmed that the blood is his, and handwriting analysts have determined that the signature is his as well, although written with his left hand. He may have been planning even then to default on the contract.” He was holding a scroll with some dark red stains at the bottom. As he paced back and forth I noticed he was having a hard time keeping his shoes on his feet. “The mortal who signed his soul over to Hell, Inc, is attempting to breach the contract.”

I stood up quickly. “But I only signed that to save the bunny!” I cried. “Order in the court!” the judge demanded. “The defendant has objected, claiming that the contract was signed under some sort of duress involving a rabbit. How does the prosecution respond to this allegation?” “We have this recording of the signing of the contract. If it pleases Your Exaltedness, I will play it for the court.” The prosecutor signaled to the bailiff, who looked remarkably like Hugh Hefner. Hef rolled in an audio-visual cart with a TV and VCR. The prosecutor took a tape from his briefcase and finally lost a shoe. I saw that the source of his podiatric woes was a cloven hoof at the end of his leg instead of a foot. He put the tape in and pressed play.

The word Reenactment blinked in red at the bottom of the screen. I was taken aback to see that I was being played by Tim Curry. I don’t look anything like Tim Curry. As the scene progressed, I was equally confused that Brittany was being played by Cameron Diaz, Dr. Railsback by Kevin Kline, and James by Danny Kaye. The reenactment was somewhat different from what I remembered having actually happened. Tim Curry stepped off the stairwell on the fourth floor of the Music/English Building and was greeted by Kevin Kline and Cameron Diaz. Doin’ good so far. Then Cameron Diaz undulated up to Tim Curry and said, “Want to sell your soul to the devil? Everybody’s doing it.” Kevin Kline confirmed, “That’s right, and in exchange you get to join the Creative Writers’ Guild.”

Tim Curry got that lovin’ look in his eyes, lookin’ at Cameron Diaz and said, “Anything for you, little darlin’. Where do I sign?” He signed the scroll with a red ballpoint and then Danny Kaye came on dressed as the Inspector General and shook Tim Curry’s hand.

The prosecutor paused the tape. “As the court can plainly see, there was no coercion involved. And the only rabbit was on the young lady’s T-shirt.” Cameron Diaz was wearing a shirt with a large Playboy bunny in the center and an arrow pointing straight down. “If the mortal makes any claim to this symbol of lust, his soul belongs in hell anyway.”

“Agreed. The court decides in favor of the prosecution.” The judge banged the Great Eternal Gavel and Hef led me out of the courtroom. I could hear weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Oh wait, that was me.

*

So anyway, I woke up on a couch surrounded by people. “No, lay down,” Dr. Miller said as she gently pushed me back on the couch. “Give him some air,” she said to the other people crowded around, and shooed them away.

Graham came over to where I was lying and asked if I was all right. I saw the Band-Aid on his finger and asked, “Did they get you too?”

“Yeah,” he said, “Paper cut. Those writing classes bite back.” After a few minutes I got up, and I did get to talk to professors about graduate schools, and I even worked in some intelligent conversation with my fellow English majors.

As I left the lounge, I saw a legal pad on an end table. It had the words Creative Writers’ Guild written across the top. Somehow, my name and e-mail address were at the top of the list. I tried to scratch them off, but my pen wouldn’t make any mark on the paper. I tried another pen, but the second one didn’t work either. Neither did the third, fourth, and fifth. Pencils were just as bad. Looks like I’m stuck, I thought. They’ve already got my everlasting soul, what else can they do to me?


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