The Cassette Tape

"How to Become a Better Writer" said the 8" by 5" plastic box. It claimed to "bring your fiction to life" through 8 simple steps.

John Keeney looked skeptically at the box. He rubbed the end of his chin with his thumb and forefinger and decided to get up from his sofa to pace the room a bit. Even if John couldn't get his thoughts and ideas correctly on paper, he certainly could think of how to do it through pacing.

‘Do I really need to go through with all this?' he thought. ‘I could just as easily talk with one of my old professors from Texas State than go through with this scam'

It was the day after Christmas, and most of John's apartment was cluttered with a collection of Christmas decorations, wrapping paper, and sections of a fake fir that John had intended to put away that morning. His apartment, located three miles from downtown Houston, was anything but spacious, but it had a certain warmth about it that made it a perfect place to build thoughts and ideas. His writer's lounge, John called it.

John Keeney was a man with a knack for creating interesting and often ingenious plots for potential short stories to contribute to the Writer's Herald, a local paper dedicated to bringing unknown writers their first shining glimpse of fame.

Problematically, John would become so focused on plot development with each story that he would altogether fail to put his ideas in a way that flowed smoothly and artistically. He would more often than not create complex, layered stories with enormous attention to plot detail but fail in attempts to add interesting, emotional characters with enough depth and humanity to hold their own in John's tangled webs. In fact, just about all of his creations were flat, uninteresting characters that simply followed the story whichever way it went rather than assuming the responsibility to carry it themselves.

As a result, nearly all of John's stories were unfinished or rejected. Or massacred by the hands of his paper shredder. At 32, John had grown tired of the failures, the rejections, and the massacres. He was desperately looking for that first break to bring him closer to becoming a contributor to the Writer's Herald.

Knowing this, John Keeney's brother, Paul, determined that what John needed was something that all good writers need at some point: a how-to-write-better cassette tape. Indeed, Paul was not a writer. Paul was a computer software salesman. If the gift was intended as a gag, the joke was definitely on John Keeney. John did not laugh as he unwrapped the poorly decorated gift, and neither did he smile at his brother when Paul put on that cheeky grin he so often wore.

Instead, John Keeney simply stared at it. He did this for a good 45 seconds and said a thank-you-Paul with a rigid, paper smile. Looking at the gift as he did in those 45 seconds, John wondered what other purpose the box could serve in the future. A paper weight, perhaps? No, far too bulky. And far too blue. John hated blue. Maybe as a blunt object to throw at Ms. Sheldon's poodle? It was considered, but much too unreasonable for that purpose. A brick would've been better. Especially when considering the physics of how much more the brick would hurt that damn dog during its 3:00 A.M. barking concert.

Of course he wouldn't open it. It would just lose its value if John decided to pawn it, which he strongly considered. Yet, here John was, bored on a Monday afternoon, jobless as usual, plagued with the thought of cleaning up Christmas as it lingered in his thoughts. He wondered how old the cassette tape was. Surely, he thought, Paul bought this on the Internet for a buck, the shipping cost of course, or got it at a garage sale. No way in hell would this piece of crap be brand new. They don't even make cassettes anymore.

He started pacing again.

After several minutes, John found an answer. He needed to get laid. And fast. But aside from that point of strain, he finally decided to open up the cassette and see what this beacon of knowledge had to offer. Besides, he'd probably spend more money on gas than what he'd make from pawning it.

By some act of God John managed to dig up the CD/cassette player his parents had given him when he moved in to his apartment three years ago. It was a dusty, beaten up piece of shit but it still worked. Even had a radio. He set the CD/cassette player on his coveted writing desk, another of his parents' going away gifts and much more appreciated than the tape player.

‘Well, here goes nothing,' thought John as he opened the blue, plastic box. The cassette sat neatly in the center, packaged as though it was something ten times more valuable than it really was. He took it out of the case and placed it in the cassette player, shut the door and pressed the play button.

‘I wonder if I'll be bored to tears or laughing my ass off,' John thought as he laid in his Laz-y Boy recliner.

For about ten seconds the only thing John heard was static. Unusual static. It wasn't the typical before-listening static that old cassettes made. That normally lasted only a second or two. This sound was a deep crackle, much like the kind at the end of an old movie reel. When the static cleared, a woman's voice shot through the speakers.

Hello, friends. I'm Geniviere and I'll be your guide to becoming a better writer. It only takes eight simple steps before your writing can come to life. If you are an amateur who creates detailed plots with little character development, this program is just for you.

John's ears perked up. ‘Well, with that British accent, at least she sounds like she knows what she's talking about. Who knows, she could even be hot in real life,'

Our first topic of discussion is characterization. This is crucial for those who lack the skills to make their protagonist compelling and full of emotion.

And this is where I fall asleep, thought John as he rolled to the side of his Laz-y Boy.

No dozing off now, this is especially important.

John turned around immediately and stared at the cassette player.

That's only a little weird, he thought.

Before you even introduce your characters, the tape continued, you must know everything about them. From little things like their age and birthday, to bigger things like what they fear the most or how they handle everyday situations. I hope you're taking notes, good listeners.

John looked at his desk where a stack of blank printer paper was left. A pen lay next to the stack.

‘When did I leave all that there?' he wondered.

Now, as I was saying, before we get to what our characters are doing, we must find out all of the specifics surrounding them. Make a list of everything you know about the character. We then come to our setting, a most crucial step. Before writing, put the characters in strange, unfamiliar, or even natural locations. Let's say, an amateur writer, for example. Let's put him in his disarranged apartment.

Now there's a start, thought John. A real eye-opener, that's for sure. Should've pawned this piece of-

If our writer is unsure of his works or say, his works have been rejected numerous times, we can guess that he has a pessimistic personality and is somewhat insecure with his own abilities.

No shit, Sherlock, thought John.

And he copes with this, no less, through pacing about his living room for hours on end.

Inside, John felt a little uncomfortable about this whole ordeal. It seemed too close to home. Too personal.

"I could probably relate to him," said John, tapping his foot nervously against the footrest.

Now, let's say, dear friends, that this recluse of a writer doesn't seem to get out of his shady, mess of an apartment. He is trapped by his own inability to cope with life's complications. If this is so, we must use the apartment as a setting for conflict, which brings us to our next step.

John Keeney figured it out. He figured out the whole damn thing. Why else would this English woman know about John? Why else would she know that his works were rejected, that his apartment was a mess, that he indulged in mindless preoccupation, that he had supposed insecurities. Paul set him up.

I underestimate you, Paul, thought John. He got up from his black faux-leather recliner.

"It all turned out just like you wanted. That trick I played on you last Christmas with the fake hand coming out of the present. It set you off. You had to get your revenge," said John.

I encourage all listeners to sit down at this point. We have some valuable topics to cover.

A little weird, he thought. But effective.

He stretched his legs and went to the phone. No way in hell was Paul going to get the last laugh with this one.

If you want to be a better writer, John, you'd better sit down and take notes.

"Fuck you, Geniviere!" shouted John as he slipped away to the kitchen. I don't know how much Paul paid you to do this, he thought, but it isn't enough to fool me. Stupid whore.

He dialed the number.

Let's say our protagonist is trying to make a call. If one were to use conflict, one would be sure that his phone was cut off. This creates a great amount of tension and suspense, the tape continued.

Just as John began to hear the first ring on the other end, the ring stopped short.

Silence.

John hung up the phone begrudgingly.

"I know I paid the phone bill this month. They probably haven't gotten the check in,"

He paused.

"What the hell am I thinking? Of course they got it in. They're just being assholes again. I knew I should've switched to that other service. Would've had a free coffee mug, too,"

He walked back into the living room. The tape was still going, but it was silent.

Welcome back, John. I knew you couldn't resist. As I was saying earlier, conflict is what creates tension and suspense, which engages the reader and keeps the story interesting.

"Been there, done that," said John as he sat back in the recliner. This bitch was as fake as her accent. All talk.

Taisen Deshimaru said that any conflict is always a battle against the self. Nothing we can do would be able to erase it completely from our lives. Even if we are isolated in our cozy abodes, it may enter at will. Take, for example, our young writer. He may not know that his kitchen is on fire, but the incident happens nonetheless. Conflict can occur even when the protagonist is completely unaware. That, my friends, is what we would call dramatic irony . . .

As Geniviere's voice trailed off, John began to feel drowsy. He reclined steadily in his Laz-y boy until it would not go back any further.

When John woke up, the smell struck his nose. John quickly jumped to his senses and sprang out of the recliner. His apartment was covered in smoke, and flames were visible from the kitchen entryway.

"Holy shit!" John yelled as he reached towards the cordless phone in the living room. He was surprised that he could even see it.

If you remember correctly, Mr. Keeney, said Geniviere, your phone is cut off.

John stopped dead, hand halfway towards the phone.

She's right, he thought.

He paused for a moment, fighting reason with instinct.

‘Wait, what am I thinking? She's a goddamn cassette tape. This is insane,'

"How do you know what I'm doing?" John yelled across the living room. The smoke was so thick that he wasn't able to determine exactly which way the sound of the tape was coming from.

I know everything about you, John. You need me.

There's a fire extinguisher by the sink, he thought. If I'm going to die, it damn sure won't be from going insane.

John rushed into the kitchen, holding his breath, and walked awkwardly towards the sink, swaying as though he was having a case of vertigo in a fun house. His eyes began to tear up as he felt the counter top. He knew the fire was coming from the small microwave oven since it was the only combustible object in the kitchen. And possibly the most expensive. Pathetic.

John grabbed what looked like the fire extinguisher and sprayed the crimson red flame popping in and out of the smoke-induced darkness. The flare died down somewhat as the white fog of the extinguisher penetrated the gray, shadowy mist surrounding the kitchen.

John was both relieved that the fire was steadily decreasing and also that what he had grabbed was really the fire extinguisher.

He couldn't hold his breath any longer.

After a quick, final spray of the extinguisher, John raced out of the kitchen and breathed.

And coughed.

And choked on a foul-smelling source of air that had managed to become trapped in all of the dense smoke.

The window, he thought. Just need to open it. He dropped the fire extinguisher and started towards the direction of where he thought the window was located.

Fresh air, he thought. I need it or I'll die.

No, John. You don't need the fresh air. You need me, said the tape.

You even know what I'm thinking, you bitch. My brother knows about this and he's gonna try to let me die. He's actually trying to fucking kill me. He set me up.

After tripping over a box of Christmas ornaments, a lamp, and a pile of dirty laundry, John found the wall. His hands traced the surface of the wall as he coughed like a smoker who started at age ten.

I'm not gonna die. I'm just not gonna fucking-bingo!

The outline of the window felt as good as the breasts of the first girl he ever kissed. Julie Mortenson. Tenth grade. It was too good to be true. And in John's case, it was. Julie already had a boyfriend at the time she had her fling with John, and heaven forbid that she'd risk all of her boyfriend's hormonal lust for the sake of being with an intellectual. John became "that guy that I used to know in high school". Whore.

Likewise was the allure of the window frame. It felt so good to the touch, but it wouldn't budge. The damn thing wouldn't move an inch after John used nearly all of his strength to push it up. Not even a single centimeter. He hacked a deep, sickening cough. He felt like his insides were boiling.

My bedroom still has fresh air, he thought.

John stumbled for a minute while trying to reach the other side of his apartment.

Glad you could join us again, Mr. Keeney. Our next topic is--

"Shut the fuck up! That's what your next topic is!"

He coughed again. Louder this time.

John finally reached his bedroom and opened the door. No smoke. He could see everything that was really there. The clarity was unbelievable. John let himself in and shut the door. He breathed as deep as his lungs would let him. Then he coughed up the remainder of what he had inhaled in those grueling minutes in the smoke-filled living room.

My cell phone, he thought. I'm gonna finally get some answers. No wait, call 911 first. Then get answers.

He found his phone laying peacefully atop his teakwood dresser. He dialed the all-important three-digit number and was greeted with a beep. He brought it away from his ear and looked at the face.

No service available.

I just need to get out of here, he thought.

John rushed out of the bedroom and started for the front door, holding his breath once more. Before laying his sweaty, shaking hand on the door, he turned around to face the small living room.

No smoke.

The air was as clear as when it was when he first woke up that morning, lying in his black Laz-y Boy.

"What the-"

Are you going to pay attention now or do I have to take drastic measures? the tape continued.

I'm officially crazy, thought John. One hundred percent insane. That's gotta be it. He walked towards the kitchen and peeked around the entryway. Everything was exactly the way it was. Including the microwave oven.

John took out his cell phone and brought up his contact list. He scrolled to Paul's name and pressed enter. There was a dial tone this time. After the second ring, Paul picked up.

"Hey man, what's up?"

"You little prick, what the hell are you trying to do to me?" said John.

"What the fuck are you talking about? You sound like somebody just broke into your pad. You okay, bro?"

"No, I'm clearly not okay, bro. Your little piece of shit how-to-write-better tape knows everything I'm doing. It even knows my name! Now what's up with that?"

"I can't hear you that good, John. Speak up,"

"Your little Christmas present just predicted a fire in my house and it just happened about five minutes ago, and now it's gone,"

"Holy crap. Are you all right? Did you call the fire department?"

You're not listening to me, John, said the tape.

"Oh, and tell whoever you hired to spy on me to shut up and leave me alone! You're just trying to make me go crazy!" cried John.

"I didn't hire anybody, bro. I don't even know what the fuck you're talking about. I bought that tape at the pawn shop on 51st as a gag,"

"You're telling me you didn't do anything to it?"

"No, dude. Hey, you're breaking up. It sounds like static whenever you talk,"

"Paul! Just give it up, alright. You won. You freaking won! Don't tell me I'm-"

Beep.

He looked at the face of his phone.

Call lost.

Now . . . let's have some fun, said the tape.

"Shut up, Geniviere!" yelled John. "Bitch! You piece of-"

He grabbed the tape player, unplugging it along the way, and went towards the window.

After setting the player down on the Laz-y boy, he went to the window and started to raise it. Before remembering his first feeble attempt, he managed to raise the window halfway with ease.

Weird, he thought.

The CD/cassette player fit smoothly out the window as he threw it with what little strength he had left. As the object grew less and less visible from the fifth story window, John could've sworn that he heard Geniviere's voice. She said something like, "we're not finished yet," but John wasn't about to believe it. He wanted to take a nap. He was tired of the madness. He was tired of thinking he was crazy. He wasn't crazy. He was just a broke writer from Houston trying to make ends meet.

Just sit down in your favorite recliner and get some shuteye, he thought.

The idea became so favorable that he nearly ran to the Laz-y Boy. Almost. It was
more like a lethargic sprint. But he made it nonetheless.

The imitation leather felt so good as John's thin, frail hands grasped the bulbous arms and sat down. It was comforting. It was familiar.

As John began to close his pink, tear-stained eyes he heard a most unpleasant noise. It was coming from the back of his mind.

John sat up from the recliner and looked around. Nothing had changed. The sound was steadily growing. Louder. And louder. He recognized the sound, that deep alien crackle. The chords of clacks and crunches that made his back hairs stand up on end. It was the static from the cassette tape.

Leave me alone, he thought. You've had your fun. You've tortured me to no end. Now leave me alone, you unrelenting demon.

The static grew to a noxious popping sound, each pop transmitting a quick, nervous reaction from John.

"I really am going crazy," he said aloud.

The popping static grew louder still, roaring with full intensity into John's ears. With each pop, John felt a baseball bat smacking both sides of his brain.

"Leave me alone!" he screamed.

He ran to his bedroom, covering his ears with his hands. Although the act itself appeared pointless to John since the sound was coming from his head, it seemed reasonable enough to muffle the ungodly racket echoing in his cerebellum.

"Please stop!"

The static died.

John removed his hands from his ears cautiously and then slid to the floor. He picked up a grumbling sound no sooner than his buttocks hit the floor.

Not again, he thought.

The static changed into a familiar sound. It was a voice. A young woman's voice. The sound reverberated something too distant for John to make out. It was faint and hollow.

After concentrating for a moment, he made out what the woman was saying repeatedly. It was his name.

"John Keeney," the voice said. "You killed me three years ago. You were the one that sent me to this hell. Release me now,"

"Who are you?" John asked, still lying on the floor. He brought his head up and breathed. The thick smell of smoke still lingered on his nose.

"Dana Waters," said the voice.

John closed his eyes, tracing back to the origins of that familiar name. He knew it so well.

Then it hit him.

"You were one of my first characters when I wrote the draft for ‘The Young Rebels'. You were the girl who fell in love with the leading man, Keeton Black. He met you at the Dusty Bridge Saloon and after you were acquainted, he saddled you up on his trusty steed and rode off into the sunset,"

"Yes, now you remember," said the voice.

"I wanted to finish the story, but when I sent the first draft to the Herald, they said it was crap,"

"And so you killed us. Every single one of us,"

"You're not real!" John shouted. He imagined what he must've looked like on the floor in his apartment, talking to no one. It was almost comical.

"None of you are real," he continued. "I wanted to do a final draft and have it published, but no one would take it. It just seemed useless to try and finish it,"

"You're wrong, John. It wouldn't have been useless. You have talent, but instead of using it now, you waste your time by thinking and pacing and watching television. And yes, John, we're all very real. And we want to live again,"

"Why do you keep saying we?"

"Because I'm not alone," said Dana.

John suddenly began to hear voices echoing in the background.

All of them chanting.

All of them growing louder.

He heard them all. All of the characters that were massacred by the paper shredder, crunched up in paper balls that flew in the waste basket. They were all there, in the depths of his mind, and they were calling his name.

"You never gave me a happy ending," said Dana, "but that doesn't mean yours has to be, either,"

The voices were growing, calling, chanting. John's army of failed creations was now shouting his name like a battle cry.

"Get out of my head!" John screamed.

"It's too late!" chanted the chorus of voices. "Your fate shall be the same as ours!"

"I promise to set you free! Just leave me the fuck alone!" he cried.

The voices stopped.

John was so shaken, he couldn't move. After a minute, he laid his throbbing head on the cold, hardwood floor.

This is just too much, he thought. I need to get out of the house. I need a vacation.

John sat on the floor and laid his head on both of his fists while sitting Indian-style. Aside from going completely mad, John thought of a number of reasonable explanations for his erratic behavior.

Maybe I'm having "one of those days". It's Monday, after all.

Instead of pacing, John, for the first time, thought hard about what he would do when he gained enough strength to stand up.

I've always wanted to finish "The Young Rebels", he thought.

It was his favorite story. He didn't mind that it also won the award for the worst reviewed piece in his collection of throwaways. It meant a great deal to John. Like a blanket that a child refused to give up after reaching his "big boy" stage. The story line was practically written in John's DNA. Despite being ripped to shreds, John knew that the story could be revived. And finished.

For three consecutive days, John's whole world revolved around finishing "The Young Rebels". He rarely slept. He rarely ate. Yet in that 72-hour period, John had as much energy as a caffeinated cheerleader before game day. He was determined to get the tale of Keeton Black and Dana Waters on paper and back in the steely fingers of the Herald reviewers. They wouldn't rain on his parade now. Or ever again.

John walked up the five flights to his apartment on Thursday after being rejected yet again. This time, however, John was smiling as big as when he typed the final period and pressed print. He finally finished the story that he had dreamed up three years ago and he wasn't about to scrap it.

This thing's gonna go in my filing cabinet for safe keeping, thought John as he hopped up the remaining few stairs.

I haven't felt this good since . . . I don't know when I've ever felt this good, he thought as he opened the door to his apartment. From the moment he stepped inside, he could feel something wasn't right. He also noticed that the Laz-y boy had its back turned towards him, and someone's legs were propped up in the chair.

"How the hell did you get in my apartment?" he yelled, clutching his portfolio firmly.

The recliner swerved around to face John. A woman with crossed legs and an icy smile gazed at John. She had the most hypnotic, almost translucent blue eyes John had ever seen. Her hair, which was put up in a tight bun, was the color of sunrise.

"Congratulations, Mr. Keeney. You managed to pass my course," she said.

Her voice, crisp and haughty, pierced John's skin like needles.

"You're Geniviere, aren't you?" John said.

"Yes," she replied, "and I have good news and bad news,"

Oh brother, John thought. More fun and games.

"This isn't a game, Mr. Keeney. The good news is that you have passed the course and that you have both your pride and your passion for writing intact. The bad news is that I'm out of a job thanks to you. My employer released me of my duties just this morning. He requested that you would see him today for an interview,"

"What? I don't wanna work for-"

"You are in need of a job, aren't you?"

"Well, yeah but-"

"Then it's settled,"

Before John could even blink, Geniviere had him in a head lock and threw him on the ground.

This bitch could be in the English wrestling federation, thought John as he struggled to get up.

Once on his feet, he only remembered a large object colliding with his face. He thought it looked like the CD/cassette player, but he was too unconscious to care.




Two weeks after Geniviere's arrival Paul Keeney and John's father George began cleaning up John's apartment, putting old trinkets and whatnots in boxes and packing away what little John had left behind. George Keeney sighed as he started to put away all of John's photos, and a tear made its way out of his eye.

"I still think he's here, in this apartment," he said solemnly.

"What do you mean?" asked Paul.

"Well, after his suicide, I just sort of . . . felt him in here, like his presence never died,"

"Yeah, well he was always kind of a nut job anyway," said Paul, wiping a tear from his own eye.

"Look at us," said George. "Acting like a couple of pansies. We've gotta be tough about this, son,"

Paul just grunted as he lifted John's old writing desk and carried it out the front door.

George reluctantly decided to go through John's bedroom and sort out all of his personal belongings. He deeply regretted the thought. He could remember that same day a week ago when Houston PD called his house and said they found John's body on the sidewalk. A fucking five story drop.

The only reason, they said, was suicide. It was the only explanation that really made sense, they said. The psychologists and analysts said he'd probably been a victim of severe depression, anxiety and a number of other words that were hard for George to pronounce.

As George made his way in John's bedroom, he felt guilty. He felt that it was his fault. Not being a good provider and father was certainly an issue that haunted George throughout the last two weeks. George was about to start opening John's teakwood dresser when he saw something on John's bed. It was a blue plastic box.

"Hey, looks like Paul's present," George said aloud.

He studied the box the way his son had, rubbing his thumb and forefinger on the end of his chin.

It just doesn't seem right, he thought.

Then he saw the CD/cassette player on the dresser. Memories flowed through George as he reminisced the time John first moved into the apartment. The player, along with the dresser and the microwave oven, was a housewarming gift, given with love.

George took the box and opened it.

You know, he thought, I never got the chance to listen to this thing. John was probably too embarrassed to listen to it. I probably would be, too, he thought.

He placed the cassette in the player, hoping that just hearing the sounds through the speakers would bring back some memories of John. He was just too young.

The tape crackled some, and a voice shot through the speakers.

Hello?! Someone help me! Get me out of here! Please! I'll get you back, Gen!! I swear! You'll be sorry! You'll be fucking sorry you ever did this!! Get me the hell out of here!

"John!" screamed George. "Where are you? What's going on!"

George realized the absurdity of talking to a cassette tape and continued listening, his heart racing.

Hey, what's that? What the hell? Something's crawling all over me! It's biting all over my skin, please help!! Please, Geniviere, make it stop! I'll do whatever you want, please just fucking stop! They're eating me! I never did anything to you! Paul! Dad! Help! Daddy!

"I'll help you!" screamed George. "Just hold on!"

He raced out of the bedroom and went out on the front landing.

"Paul!" he yelled.

"What's up?"

"John's voice is on that tape!"

"What tape?"

"The one in the blue box!"

"He's on that tape? No way!"

"I'm not lying! It must've been re-recorded before he d-...passed on!"

The two men hurried up the steps and went to John's bedroom.

The tape was silent, but the wheels inside the player were still moving.


Hello, gentlemen, said a different voice. Who's next?



Word Count: 5,272