An Inquiry Into The Submission
Chris Tarry
"An inquiry into submission 245,789 will now commence," said the one in charge. "Sir, you have been before us many times. Please start from the beginning."
"I first met her when I worked in central processing. She was ordinary; in fact, I almost passed over her application. Her writing lacked everything that you, the group, hold in high regard."
"Amazing," said the one on the left, shuffling papers as he spoke.
"Truly," added another, looking to check his facts.
"I told her she was blessed to have been granted an interview; that the story she submitted was of lower quality than many of the others. She asked for a chance. Hearing this, I offered her a position."
"It says here that you placed her in section 542. Is this correct?" asked the one in the center, his robe perfect and clean.
"Yes. She had the basic materials, a table, typewriter, and paper."
"How long did it take for her to finish the first submission?" asked a new voice from far in the back.
"Five years. 230 rough drafts. Her first submission was, again, short on all things the group holds in high regard. I had her start again."
"And the second story. How long?" asked the one on the left, spectacles clinging to his face.
"One-hundred years. 1,500 rough drafts. Three-thousand pages long, a stack of paper roughly three feet high."
"The group does not take length into consideration," barked the one in charge.
"Not important," yelled someone from the back.
"Indeed. However, I saw the beginnings of something wonderful. Her growth was quite like nothing I'd ever seen."
"Yes. It was." said one, checking his notes.
"She was saddened upon my dismissal of the second submission. She wished to leave. I tried to convince her to stay, her talent was growing."
"But she left, did she not?" asked the one on the left.
"Yes, she did. To where, I don't think we will ever be quite certain."
"How long until she returned?" asked the one on the right.
"If I may appeal to the group, I would like to check my notes."
"Please do," they said, in unison.
"My notes say 1,562 years."
"Much time had passed," said one, marking it down in his book.
"Not so much as to be a problem," remarked another.
"She had grown very old by that time, and had much trouble walking as I led her to her room. She sat in the chair, rolled a piece of paper into the typewriter, and gently lowered her head. It was many years before she spoke to me."
"How many years?" yelled one from the back.
"Fifty years, sir."
"Is it true that she told you the story, having not written anything down?" the one on the left asked, spectacles now in hand.
"Yes. Once she started, it took a long time for her to relay the submission to me. Her voice had grown tired, old, and weathered."
"And when she was finished?"
"When she was done, through tears of joy, I offered her a place among the group."
"And she declined?" asked the one on the right.
"Yes, she declined."
"This calls for dismissal of this submission!" yelled a few.
"I think not." Said the one in charge, his manner softening.
"And then?" Asked one with a raised eyebrow.
"After submitting her story, she stood, thanked me, and left. Her last words to me were the title of the submission before you now. You will notice that the story contains all the qualities the group holds in high regard."
"The submission does indeed contain those things," said the one in charge.
He stood, and in a voice that echoed through the clouds beneath our feet, he proclaimed, "It is the best story we have seen thus far. It is the opinion of this gathering that we shall see it realized. Sir, to that end, your appearance here has been helpful."
"Good. I am glad." I said.
"One last question," said one who had not yet spoken. "Before we proceed, how do you feel about its name-the title if you will?"
"The title?"
"Yes. We would like to know what you think of it," said the one on the left, leaning in.
I paused, and looked around the room. I took in the faces of those who held this world's fate in its hands. "I think Earth is a beautiful title. I feel it will be nothing short of a miracle."
"Yes, beautiful!" Said the one in charge.
"A Miracle!" Yelled someone from the back.
And with that, I turned, descended, and disappeared through the gates for the very last time.
Chris Tarry is a musician and fiction writer living in Brooklyn. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The G.W. Review, PANK, The Paradigm Journal, Opium Magazine, and others. He makes his living playing bass in New York City and has recently completed a novel, The Wedding King of Vermont. He's originally Canadian and has won a bunch of Juno Awards, which are like Grammy's but pointier.
A version of this story originally appeared in Opium Magazine.
