V. H. King's Ink

When Judith got the call, she was scrolling through her inbox in an attempt to feel productive. The forecast for a wintery mix was more winter, less mix; Judith’s shoulders drew in at the occasional scratch of ice on the window.
The chime for the video popped up, a profile picture of a red-bearded face with a winning smile inviting her to chat.

Judith’s eyes slid to the clock in the corner of her desktop and sighed. Another day where time decided to park in a cul-de-sac somewhere while it figured out how to keep going. Wonder what that’s like…

Click.

“Hey, Turner.”

“You sound glum, Judd.”

Her eyes were drawn to the cable-knit sweater Turner was wearing. The yarn looked thick, the stitches—or were they called knots?—tightly wound. It looked extremely cozy and a nightmare to wash.

Judith rolled her eyes and clicked the camera icon.

“Do I look any better?”

Her mouth quirked, knowing she still hadn’t paused her music. It was a Lana del Rey mix; misty and unmotivated, possibly drunk with self-pity. When Turner squinted at her, Judith knew he was trying to figure out how moody of a playlist she had going.

“That posture of yours is going to kill you before the job does.”

“And collect disability from the company instead of pitching stories that make everyone squirm through staff meeting?” Judith tsked. “Damn, you figured out my plan.”

“Well, before you go hobbling off on a magic quest, I got something for you. I know you’re not working.”

“I can’t tell if this a last rites or an initiation kind of deal—but listen, figuring out the work I need to do later is work.”

“Yes, you prided yourself on your organizational skills in the interview and still feel like you have to prove yourself at everything.”

Turner shook his head, giving her a dubious look. Judith knew it to be an affectionate fondness. But HR would be loathe to hear supervisors having such caring relationships with their employees, even though they advertised job listings as the unique opportunity to join a caring family culture where everyone is valued and encouraged to succeed.

---

“Family is a lie,” Judith told Turner after three weeks on the job.

One muff of her headphones pushed behind her ear, eyes still on the screen and fingers flying across the keys. Turner found himself caught by Judith’s familiarity; she was equally casual and straightforward with everyone she came across.

“I’m sorry?”

Turner thought there was something inscrutable about Judith. She wasn’t the kind of person you could get the best of, which was a large part of why she’d been hired in the first place. He’d been careful to keep the word shrewd out of his notes, but that had been his first impression. Whether she’d be cold, bitter, or cruel was a toss-up, and he’d taken the risk to see how the cards fell.

Judith could calculate the strength of a potential pitch as easily as she could say she had three brain tumors. Turner hadn’t known that in the first month, of course, but he could sense the fatality about her. Judith’s off-hand openness was strategic, daring others to pry into matters they’d otherwise consider a glaring misstep in social interaction.

“That’s how they get you though,” Judith was saying, picking up a pen to scribble a few more rows on her to-do list. “With a hope of a family that’s better than your own, and the reality of the same old toxic manipulative shit that makes it impossible to leave.”

Judith’s nonchalant boredom was one thing. Her social critique was another: frank arguments bordering on scathing remarks. Turner was not used to either–especially not from someone he was supposed to supervise.

“Do you even like working here?”

Turner surprised himself, both by the question and his tone. Usually he preferred keeping a mild-mannered composure, but Judith didn’t care about being polite. Apparently, she also had a cavalier streak that brought out the skeptical humor in him. It was the voice in the back of his head that had often brought a half-smirk to his face during meetings, but Turner had never shared any of those opinions out loud.

A sound escaped from Judith’s tilted head, and Turner realized it was a laugh right before her chin shut on a quiet burp. Before he could blink, her gands were scrambling for the keyboard and she was leaning towards the screen.

“Are you kidding? I love it here, it’s totally wild.”

For the rest of the week, Judith had spied the apprehension in Turner’s eyes. Should he include their little chat in her three-month evaluation? Was it inappropriate to refer her to one of the resource groups the company offered? Turner had heard about some of the new programs they were trying out to help new employees adjust.

By the time her three-month eval had come up, the only points he had for her were reminding her to take lunch breaks and to ask for help if she needed it. She’d told him to call her Judd and treat her like a boy, and the rest of the office quickly caught on.

For those who still weren’t sure what to make of her, it seemed to smooth whatever feathers she’d ruffled. More importantly, totally wild had become a stand-in around the office, a catchall for anything absurd, far-fetched, or unlikely. In short, it was synonymous with Judith herself. 

---

Judith stretched her arms up, straightening her back. Maybe she would feel more awake if her blood scurried through her veins for a bit.

“Why do you even remember that?” she asked. “My interview was like ten years ago.”

It was closer to fifteen, but Turner didn’t correct her. All he said was,

“You aren’t the type of person anyone forgets.”

Turner’s eyes shifted to his monitor, scanning a screen Judith couldn’t see. She wondered what was hiding behind Turner’s words. Him dropping an assignment in her lap wasn’t unusual; her brain had a teenager-sized appetite for strategy and program proposals.

A new email popped up in Judith’s inbox. She stretched her neck, trying to touch one ear to her shoulder and then the other ear to her other shoulder. It occurred to her that she was still on camera. She also realized her whole body was cold, not just her hands and feet.

“Speaking of memorable things, you’re going to write a story about forgetting.” Turner’s eyes focused on the camera again. “I just sent you the info. Take your time on it, by the way.”

“I never rush into anything.” Judith covered her yawn with the back of her wrist. “Not unless I’ve had too much coffee or I have to give a presentation.”

“Judd…” Turner paused, either from amusement or exasperation. “You distract yourself from everything.”

“What color is your sweater?” Judith’s eyes narrowed at the screen. “Cinnamon? Pumpkin? I can’t tell, fluorescent lighting is a bitch.”

“My point exactly.”

A brief warning sparked in Turner’s eyes. It could have been for her, but Judith had a hunch he was telling himself not to lecture her. Turner was also reminding himself not to tell Judith what to do with this assignment.
Judith had seen this look before: part unamused, part grimace, and hidden affection masked as uncertain hesitation.

What she hadn’t been able to ignore this time was the worry. It had been easy to do, after the first three accidents. Most people had taken her word when she’d said she was fine because they believed she would be, eventually. And the surgeries had helped too…at first.

Now she was just the enigmatic sprite who worked from everywhere except the office, two-parts dark humor and one-part chaos. There weren’t any more surgeries. Just experimental medicines, spontaneous bruises, and an endless carousel of follow-up appointments.

“It’s up to you if you want to do the interview over the phone or in-person, but I think you should at least get a feel for the town,” Turner was saying. “Let me know if you need help with the travel reimbursement forms.”

Judith rolled her eyes.

“I never use those—I’m better off claiming the travel on my taxes.”

The body of Turner’s email was mostly a replay of the conversation they’d had, with all the necessary reminders and links included. Turner loved his templates, but Judith scrolled down to the form response he’d forwarded. There were the usual contact details, a request to review a manuscript, and the user indicated the manuscript would include illustrations. 

No files had been uploaded–which wasn’t too far out of the ordinary, since they were one of the few places that still accepted manila envelopes. Even better, someone could meet with an agent and the creative lead to present and discuss their project’s possibilities. The process-flow from creator on-boarding to niche serialization to collector’s edition print-copies had been Judith’s brain child. Turner hadn’t been able to find a reason to say no to a test run, and neither had any of the other managers.

By the time she’d become the Creative Director, she had not only designed the new business plan but had improved it. Twice. As a director, she finally pitched to the deep pockets instead of waiting for the usual bureaucratic relay race. Judith formally integrated the marketing and sales departments into a comprehensive business model that relied less on product demand and focused more on community-building between various fan-camps and the creative teams working the projects. 

Those connections brought in a rich variety of talent, not to mention opened up income streams for potential business ventures. The suits had wanted her voice on the strategic plan committee, but Judith wouldn’t do it in her role as director. In fact, she wasn’t on the creative team at all, nor was she strictly in the business or talent development departments either. 

On the website, Judith was listed as a critical consultant–which was a fancy way of saying she got paid a lot of money to give her opinion and dare people to prove her wrong. To no one’s surprise, it was good for business. Besides, she got her flexible schedule, plenty of sick time to float between appointments and recovery days, and recruited Turner as her right-hand man. HR hadn’t seen that coming, but they couldn’t call it nepotism or anything else.

Judith scanned the details of the email again. From the user’s name and location alone, her mind conjured the colorful anachronism she imagined most small towns to be. Corner groceries where the long-time residents shopped, kids with their bikes on paper routes, ten-year-old cars parallel parked on wide leafy boulevards with brick houses and mature trees. There would be new car washes closer to the highway, along with chain stores and restaurants that could never compare to the kind of service you got in town. 

Finally, Judith’s eyes settled and she soaked in the solitary sentence in the Additional Comments field:

I wrote a story I forgot, and I thought you should know about it.

The words almost read like a threat. Maybe that was why it had come through in the first place. The user hadn’t filled out the complaint form, and after a quick search, there were no records in the system of anyone with that name or from that location submitting any other type of form.

Was the company trying to avoid a formal complaint on their hands? Publishing houses were hastily trying to hold on to their personae as more rotten deals came to light, worsened by the fact that many authors had decided to completely forego contracts over the last fifteen years.

The company had shifted its model—first to a la carte services, then to education resources, and most recently, a collective of writers, artists, and other creative minds who combined their expertise to pursue innovative storytelling through intimate partnerships.

Or so the job listings said.

“If you’re unsure about something, Judd—”

“Yeah, no, I’m fine.” Judith said, already moving her mouse to the red X at the top of her screen. “I’ll get it done, don’t worry.”

She closed out the window, ending the call, knowing full well it wasn’t getting the job done that Turner was worried about.