Not long after he took up writing again for the first time in years, Paul got his first acceptance ever for a short story he’d written, and so he called his sister to let her know they had a reason to celebrate when they met for their regular weekly coffee later that day. He was already there when Sarah came in but hadn’t ordered anything yet. He got up to pull out a chair for her, asked her what she’d like, he could buy them slices of cake as a treat as well if she wanted, but she said just a latte was fine, so he also decided not to have anything to eat and ordered a latte for himself. He waited at the counter whilst they were made and brought them over in their chunky mugs, put them on the table, and sat down facing his sister.
‘Congratulations then!’
‘Thank you! I’m quite excited. I only sent it off two weeks ago and it’s the first I’ve sent anywhere.’
‘Which one is it again? I know you were working on a few.’
‘It’s the one called Sunday Eggs.’
‘Ah yes, I remember that one.’
Sarah did remember Sunday Eggs. A rather unhappy story describing in minute detail a husband cooking eggs for his family on a Sunday morning whilst his wife has a bath and their two kids play outside, when out of the blue tragedy strikes. She was surprised it was the one that got selected, but she didn’t really know how these things worked, and what people were into when it came to short stories, so was happy for Paul anyway, and it was the happiest she’d seen him for a long time. Their conversation then fell into the usual chat about Sarah’s work, the weather, as they drank their coffees, and when they reached their last sips Paul brought it back to his story.
‘Anyway, I’ve been thinking how to celebrate.’
‘And?’
‘I was thinking of getting a tiny tattoo.’
‘What! You? A tattoo?’
‘I know, I’m the last person you’d think to have one, but that’s kind of part of why I think it’s a good way to mark the occasion. I’ve been changing things, writing again, and sending stuff off, so I thought, why not.’
‘But, a tattoo, Paul. It’s a bit odd. I mean you’re in your mid-fifties.’
‘That shouldn’t matter, should it? I’m only talking about something very small. A letter ‘A’’
‘A letter ‘A’? Just a letter ‘A’ as a tattoo?’
‘Yes, ‘A’ for ‘acceptance’, for getting my first story accepted. Just a really small, capital ‘A’ up on my forearm here.’
Paul pulled up the left sleeve on his yellow jumper and put his index finger high up on his inner forearm, just below the elbow, and tapped his fingertip a few times.
‘Just here. Just a simple, tiny, capital ‘A’.’
‘Well, it’s your arm, Paul, but I can’t say I understand it. But, if that’s how you want to celebrate, then fine. Just be careful.’
‘Thanks, Sarah. I’m really over the moon with the acceptance.’
‘That’s great. Me too. I have to go soon though I’m afraid.’
‘That’s okay. I’ve finished my coffee, and I’m going to pop to Tiger Tattoos shop around the corner and see how much they charge for a single letter.’
Sarah took the final sip of her latte and put down the mug, stood up, put on her coat, and came round to the side of the table Paul was sitting and gave him a peck on the cheek, congratulated him again, and didn’t mention the tattoo. She said she’d see him in a week for their next coffee catch up, and he said goodbye. She left, the bell on the door jingling as she did, and some cool air entered the café. Paul put on his jacket and beanie hat and took their empty mugs to the counter, said thank you, and left.
Outside Tiger Tattoos he looked in the window display at the range of artwork design available, mostly traditional images, lurid animals with beady eyes, mythical and real, but none that you’d ever see in their town; lions, tigers, snakes and curled dragons, enlarged spiders and bees, then next to the animal selection a range of seafaring tattoos of ships, anchors, fish jumping out of splashing waves, a dolphin, a shark, and even what looked like a three entwined eels, and several contorted octopi. The final display board was a miscellany of everything else, daggers through hearts with blank scrolls for names, an American Indian’s head in profile, a wooden barrel next to an oversized pint of foaming beer, overlapping, bulbous hearts, and a selection of different coloured roses, including a black one and a blue one. All the drawings were marked by bold, mostly primary colours, drawn with thick black line edges, but none of them showing any letters. Paul decided to go in and ask anyway.
‘Hello, mate. How can I help you?’
‘Do you do letters?’
‘How do you mean like?’
‘A single letter. From the alphabet. The letter ‘A’’
‘Just a letter you mean? Not a word or a design?’
‘No, just one letter. A capital ‘A’. Small. Can you do that?’
Aye, course we can. It’s a three-minute job, mate. Five quid to you. Do you want it now?’
‘Ah, okay. Yes, please.’
Within five minutes Paul was leaving Tiger Tattoos, the upper part of his left forearm in cling film sellotaped to his skin, covering the small ‘A’ precisely in the position he’d indicated to his sister. It hadn’t hurt much at all, almost tickled, but he could feel the heat of it on his skin. He’d been told to keep the plastic wrap on it for the rest of the day, not to wash it for a few days, and definitely not to scratch it when it started itching and scabbing, and within a week it’d be set.
When he got home, he made himself a cup of tea with milk, one sugar, took two digestive biscuits from the tin in the cupboard, put them on a small plate, and took his snack and drink to his flat’s front room where he had his bookcase, and a two-seater dining table next to the window with his laptop on it. He lifted up the screen, switched it on, entered his password and popped to the bathroom to look at his tattoo whilst it booted up. It looked sore, and the skin around the ‘A’ slightly puffed up, but the pain was no higher, just a constant warmth for no more than a square inch in that area of his arm. He carefully pulled his jumper sleeve back down, making sure not to ruffle or loosen the cling film and went back to his laptop, tea, and biscuits.
He worked on a final proofread and edit of a story he’d written about a kid at school born with a hole in his heart, who the other kids made fun of for the pallor of his skin when he got excited, and slightly rewrote the ending where the headmaster tells the school during assembly that the boy has died. He opened his spreadsheet of places to send the story to, selected seven possible online journals that might accept it, drafted his cover email, and sent it to the first one on the list, then forwarded the same email to the other six, taking care to make sure he’d deleted the ‘Fw:’ from the subject line and change the name of the journal he was sending it to in his salutation. He then recorded the seven submissions in his submissions spreadsheet, entering the date of sending, the name of each place, the email address, and any information he had about payment and likely response times.
By the time Paul met his sister the following week he’d had a couple of rejections for The Boy with the Hole in his Heart. Over their lattes she’d asked him how his writing was going, and he told her about the two rejections, she said she was sorry to hear it, and he replied something about it being part of the process, even the best of the best got plenty of them, and he just had to get used to it. It was fine, no problem. They finished their catch up with Sarah giving Paul a peck on his left cheek, rubbing his shoulder briefly, and telling him she was sure he’d get an acceptance soon. Paul waved his sister goodbye as she went through the bell-jangling door, returned their used mugs to the counter, took his jacket from the back of his chair, put it on, as well as his beanie, and went out.
He walked straight into Tiger Tattoos without stopping to admire the display, which hadn’t changed in the past week anyway, and the tattooist who was working on a man’s right upper arm, paused and looked up.
‘Hello again. I remember you from last week. Mr ‘A’. Back for more?’
‘Kind of, yes.’
‘Alright, take a seat. I’ll be done with this fella soon if you’re okay waiting.’
‘Yes, I’m okay waiting.’
Paul sat on one of the two seats for waiting customers that looked like they’d been taken from someone’s kitchen and looked at the sheets of other tattoo designs displayed on the walls. Mostly they were the same as everything in the window, such as a sheet of green and red Chinese dragons, all in profile, their only difference being the intertwining of their coiled bodies and their size, each one with a pencilled number in the right corner under it showing the price. By the time Paul had perused and studied other sheets of maritime designs, more daggers and other weapons through hearts, more American Indian inspired drawings, and numerous other exotic animals, the tattooist was ready.
‘Okay, mate. What can I do for you?’
‘I’d like the same as last week, but just a little different please.’
‘Sure, what’s the difference?’
‘Can you do two more next to it? Next to the ‘A’.’
‘Two more ‘A’s?’
‘Ah, no, that’s the other difference. Can you do two ‘R’s please? Same style and size and everything, but just right next to the ‘A’ from last week?’
‘Aye, mate. If that’s what you want, no bother at all. It’ll be ten quid mind you, for two letters.’
Within quarter of an hour Paul was leaving Tiger Tattoos, a new wrap of cling film taped around the part of his left forearm near the elbow, feeling the same hot hum of slight pain. Once home he peeled his jacket off slowly, then the same with his jumper and enjoyed the cool of his front room’s temperature on his skin. He got his two biscuits, cup of milky tea with a single sugar and switched on his laptop, opened his latest Word document and started work on his newest piece, The Bus Stops, a quick story about an older woman reminiscing about her late husband as she takes the circle route repeatedly to keep warm in winter whilst looking at places she and her husband used to go. Paul figured if he could finish it on that day, he could proofread it the next, and get it sent off to a few places.
Over their next coffee catch up Paul told Sarah he’d finished another piece and had already sent it off to nine places, one of which he’d heard back from, and he’d also had a handful of responses back for The Boy with the Hole in his Heart but not an acceptance yet. He repeated that this was a normal part of trying to get published, he didn’t mind and was sure they’d get selected soon. Sarah agreed, conceding that it was something she knew really nothing about, and that she trusted Paul, and hoped he was enjoying the process, that he wasn’t going to let it get him down, that she worried about him. He said he was fine, and after his weekly peck on the cheek he wandered around to Tiger Tattoos again.
‘Well, hello, Mr ‘A’ and ‘R’. Is this going to be a weekly visit then?’
‘I don’t know about that, but I’d like a few more please.’
‘Sure, no bother, Pal. What letter are we going for this week?’
‘Ah, no, the same, well ‘R’ anyway. I’d like seven more ‘R’s please.’
‘Bloody hell! Seven ‘R’s! You know that’s thirty-five quid, right?’
‘I know.’
‘Well, look. I’m not busy today. I can do them now and I’ll only charge you thirty. How does that sound?’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you.’
Paul removed his jacket, sat in front of the tattooist, rolled up his left sleeve and presented his arm across the desk in the position he now knew the tattooist needed him to place it. It took less than twenty minutes for Paul to have his ‘A’ followed by a new total of nine ‘R’s, the seven latest ones showing a red halo of throbbing around them. After being wrapped up in the same weekly fashion of the previous two visits, Paul walked home, prepared his snack and tea and sat down to work on another short one about a kid who’s bullied at school for trying to get a fancy haircut, The Hair of a Pop Star.
Over the coming weeks, for the trio of recently completed short stories, Paul struggled to get an acceptance. The rows on his spreadsheet pages grew as he found more journals and magazines to send to, but more rejections came. Each week he met his sister, they had their lattes, talked about his progress, and after sharing quick synopses of his new stories, she’d wish him luck, say goodbye, then Paul would pop again to Tiger Tattoos. Within a month, following his initial ‘A’, Paul now had a couple of lines of ‘R’s and had parted with over a hundred pounds more of his meager income. He continued writing more stories, each one becoming a little shorter, and emailing it off to a wider list of places. Within a couple of weeks more he asked his sister if they could meet every two weeks, rather than every week, so he could spend more time focusing on his writing and ensure another acceptance soon. She initially pushed back, reminding him how he can be sometimes, not to forget why he stopped writing for so long in the first place, but he reassured her it was simply to get ahead, make progress. Sarah accepted his explanation, but told him she could meet anytime if he needed. He thanked her, but their coffees became fortnightly from then on, even though his visits to Tiger Tattoos stayed weekly.
At their next catch up Paul didn’t offer to talk about his writing, and Sarah didn’t want to initially bring it up, but there were silences between them, and so she asked as a means for something to say, despite her worry about what his updates might be.
‘Have you had any more luck with your writing, Paul?’
‘No, not yet. Still plugging away.’
‘How many stories have you got out there now?’
‘Looking for publishers you mean? Around seven or eight I think.’
‘Which ones are they? I know there’s one about the widow on the bus, and the boy who gets bullied. Oh, and the poor boy with the heart problem who dies. I don’t know about the others I think.’
‘There’s a few more. I wrote one about a young couple that die in a crash, called Seaside Rock. There’s another about a man who can’t pay his mortgage, Gary’s House. There’s a few more too.’
‘Right, how many places have you sent them to?’
‘I don’t know exactly, several dozen for sure.’
‘And, sorry, but how many rejections?’
‘Several dozen of those too.’
‘Oh, Paul. I’m sorry. I’m sure something will come through soon. Can I say one thing though?’
‘Go on.’
‘I mean this in the absolute best way possible, but have you thought about writing something a little less maudlin, something a bit more upbeat perhaps? Not that I know anything about these things of course. Just, maybe that will help you get more interest, and help you too if you know what I mean.’
‘I do know, and I should try I suppose.’
Nothing more was said about Paul’s writing or lack of success since the first acceptance for the rest of their meeting. They exchanged pleasantries about the weather, Sarah’s work, and with her departing peck and rub on Paul’s shoulder, and a couple of words of encouragement, she left, and Paul went to Tiger Tattoos to get a couple more lines of ‘R’s, the most he’d had in one sitting.
When he got home, his latest collection of fresh letters on his forearm was stinging more than usual, this being a greater number than any other time, yet he got his biscuits, made his mug of tea, and sat at the table in front of his computer screen, and stared at the cursor blinking in the top left corner. As it flicked on and off in front of him, almost hypnotising him, the steam of his tea dissipated, the biscuits untouched, and his hands, fingers entwined, resting just in front of his keyboard didn’t move. After half an hour he took a sip of his cold tea, spat it back into the mug, took it to the kitchen, emptied the contents down the sink, refilled the kettle, took a fresh teabag from the tea jar, dropped it in the same mug, and paced up and down his small kitchen whilst the water bubbled to a boil. When the kettle clicked off, he resolved to himself, whilst pouring the water into his mug, that after just one more acceptance he wouldn’t go to Tiger Tattoos again. After just another ‘A’, he’d stop.
Back at his laptop he took a large semi-circle bite of one of the biscuits and started to type. The story came out quickly and over this first mug, and then another, and a total of four biscuits, he rattled out close to 4,000 words. He added a new sheet on his tracking spreadsheet, put the name of the story in the first column, then the remaining details, just like all his other spreadsheet pages, and then started a quick proofread over a third mug of tea. By the time he needed to switch the front room lights on, he’d finished it completely and was ready to make some new submissions.
The day before he was due to meet his sister, the acceptance came through, and the story was to be published the following month. There had been a good number of rejections for other stories as well, but they all fell into insignificance as soon as he got the acceptance for the one he’d written that afternoon after he’d last seen Sarah. He went an hour before their catch up to get the story printed off in the stationers nearby for her to read over their coffees, which still left enough time to go to Tiger Tattoos once more as well. When Sarah entered the café, Paul gave her an unexpected hug, explained he’d got an acceptance, and went to get their lattes.
‘Congratulations! What is it about?’
‘Well, I took your advice and wrote it all in the afternoon after we last met.’
‘Okay, how do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s less sad than my usual stories I suppose. I mean it’s not a sad story at all. I’ve printed a copy if you want to read it.’
‘Erm, sure, can do.’
Paul removed the sheets of A4 from his jacket pocket, folded in three, as though ready for an envelope, and handed them to Sarah. She took her reading glasses out of her bag and began to read Acceptance Rejection. When she saw her name, she looked up and smiled at him, and then when the protagonist, also with Paul’s name, gets the ‘A’ tattoo she looked up again, smiled, and did a pretend tut. At the bottom of page 5, when narrator goes back to Tiger Tattoos, the shop with the same name as the one in their town, she shuffled in her seat, and as she continued she didn’t look up, take a drink from her coffee, or react to anything she read. When she got to the part where the main character resolves to stop getting any more letters tattooed on his arm only after he receives his second acceptance, she sighed and shook her head, put the pages in her lap, looked past Paul, and paused. After a minute, she turned the pages over again, and carried on reading. When she finished the story she removed her glasses, folded the pages in two, put them on the table between them and looked up at her brother.
‘Is this all true?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘It’s a weird story, Paul. I can see the true bits. I want to know if it’s all true.’
‘Sarah, all my stories, all of them are true. In their own way.’
‘I know, but not completely true like this one. Just some truth.’
‘That’s fair I suppose, but it’s been accepted.’
‘Okay, I want to know how much of it is true, Paul. Show me your arm.’
‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’
‘Yes, it does matter.’
‘You won’t like it I think.’
‘Show me your arm, Paul.’
Paul put down his mug, leant back in his chair, and slowly rolled up his sleeve, and presented his left forearm, with the new piece of cling film, taped down close to his wrist, where the tattooist had etched his second ‘A’ just half an hour before their catch up.
‘Oh, Paul.’
‘I’m sorry, Sarah. I said you probably wouldn’t like it.’
‘You can’t get like this again, Paul, you just can’t. Please promise me you’ve stopped.’
‘I promise. I’ve stopped.’
‘Alright, I have to believe you I suppose. Show me it once more, and then sorry, but I never want to see it again after that, because I can’t be reminded again. Of how things used to be.’
‘You won’t be, Sarah. Only happy stories from now on. I promise. No going back.’
Paul held his forearm out in front of him, the thirteen rows reaching almost down to his wrist, and then pinched his cuff, to pull down the sleeve of his yellow jumper over the rows of capital letters, and over the last bit of cling film covering the ‘A’ at the end.
A R R R R R R R R R R R R
R R R R R R R R R R R R R
R R R R R R R R R R R R R
R R R R R R R R R R R R R
R R R R R R R R R R R R R
R R R R R R R R R R R R R
R R R R R R R R R R R R R
R R R R R R R R R R R R R
R R R R R R R R R R R R R
R R R R R R R R R R R R R
R R R R R R R R R R R R R
R R R R R R R R R R R R R
R R R R R R R R R R R R A
Follow and Connect with Paul Kimm
About
Paul Kimm is from a North East coastal town in England. He writes short stories about his working-class upbringing and early adulthood, and other things. He has had publications in Literally Stories, Northern Gravy, Fictive Dream, Mono, Bristol Noir, and several others.
Social Media
Website: https://paulkimm.co.uk/
Leave a comment