Blurb
Eight years after Samantha Whitaker ghosted out of his orbit, Jack thought he’d deleted that file for good. Then her name flashes across his cracked screen — a relic from a life that ran smoother on caffeine and bad decisions.
The city’s running on cheap tech and unpaid labor now, and Jack’s just another freelancer drowning in algorithmic debt when the call comes through. She’s working for a “promising startup,” the kind that smells like ozone and trouble.
He knows he should hang up. Instead, he says yes. With enthusiasm.
Original (First 500)
When Samantha called me for the first time in eight years, it was surprising for two reasons. The first is that roughly 90% of the calls I receive these days are from debt collectors after me to pay down my student loans. The other being that we parted on pretty ugly terms, most of that was my fault and I honestly never expected to hear from her again.
I scolded myself afterwards for being so eager. Fell out of bed, tangled up in the sheets trying to get my hands on the phone, then tapped the green icon and breathlessly answered. It’s been eight years, I shouldn’t give a shit. She should be like any other person to me.
“Jack? You sound so different. But then, it’s been a while, hasn’t it. I’ve been wondering what’s happening in your life.” I struggled to sound composed but nonetheless stammered a little bit as I searched for words. “Y-yeah Sam, it’s…you sound different too. It’s nice to hear from you though. You must’ve Googled me, right?” She said that she had, and congratulated me on the trip to Africa I’d taken in my first year interning for the local paper.
“That must’ve been so fulfilling. If you don’t mind me asking, what are they paying you?” I assumed she knew it was unpaid if she’d bothered to ask, so I didn’t sugar coat it. “Wow,” that sucks. But that’s the economy, right? Plenty of people are working for free just to get their foot in the door. Then they let you go right before they’d have to hire you and taken on new interns.” Technically the law prevents that, but I was aware of loopholes.
“You know, I might be able to help. I’m working for this promising new tech startup, it’s right up your alley. There’s plenty of opportunities for someone like you, maybe we could meet for coffee and I’ll tell you about it? Sounded just similar enough to a date that my heart skipped a beat. Reflexively, I blurted out yes. She supplied the day and time, which I dutifully recorded in my calendar app after she’d hung up.
Long after the call ended, my heart was still racing. I’d gone through hell after the breakup. I think only because I was dumped. Something about rejection makes you cling to that person, even if they are nothing special to begin with. I’d seen a local therapist about it for three years before I felt put together enough to stop. Well, not a real therapist. Psych students in training. That’s why it’s free.
Clarity began returning to me, and I wondered if I hadn’t made a mistake. Seeing her in person would only rekindle feelings I’d spent most of a decade trying to extinguish. The therapist, insofar as it was right to use that word, urged me to cut off all contact for my own good. That seemed logical at the time. But then, doesn’t absence make the heart grow fonder?
When Samantha called me for the first time in eight years, it was surprising for two reasons. The first is that roughly 90% of the calls I receive these days are from debt collectors after me to pay down my student loans. The other being that we parted on pretty ugly terms, most of that was my fault and I honestly never expected to hear from her again.
I scolded myself afterwards for being so eager. Fell out of bed, tangled up in the sheets trying to get my hands on the phone, then tapped the green icon and breathlessly answered. It’s been eight years, I shouldn’t give a shit. She should be like any other person to me.
“Jack? You sound so different. But then, it’s been a while, hasn’t it. I’ve been wondering what’s happening in your life.” I struggled to sound composed but nonetheless stammered a little bit as I searched for words. “Y-yeah Sam, it’s…you sound different too. It’s nice to hear from you though. You must’ve Googled me, right?” She said that she had, and congratulated me on the trip to Africa I’d taken in my first year interning for the local paper.
“That must’ve been so fulfilling. If you don’t mind me asking, what are they paying you?” I assumed she knew it was unpaid if she’d bothered to ask, so I didn’t sugar coat it. “Wow,” that sucks. But that’s the economy, right? Plenty of people are working for free just to get their foot in the door. Then they let you go right before they’d have to hire you and taken on new interns.” Technically the law prevents that, but I was aware of loopholes.
“You know, I might be able to help. I’m working for this promising new tech startup, it’s right up your alley. There’s plenty of opportunities for someone like you, maybe we could meet for coffee and I’ll tell you about it? Sounded just similar enough to a date that my heart skipped a beat. Reflexively, I blurted out yes. She supplied the day and time, which I dutifully recorded in my calendar app after she’d hung up.
Long after the call ended, my heart was still racing. I’d gone through hell after the breakup. I think only because I was dumped. Something about rejection makes you cling to that person, even if they are nothing special to begin with. I’d seen a local therapist about it for three years before I felt put together enough to stop. Well, not a real therapist. Psych students in training. That’s why it’s free.
Clarity began returning to me, and I wondered if I hadn’t made a mistake. Seeing her in person would only rekindle feelings I’d spent most of a decade trying to extinguish. The therapist, insofar as it was right to use that word, urged me to cut off all contact for my own good. That seemed logical at the time. But then, doesn’t absence make the heart grow fonder?
My Edit
I was lying in bed, debating whether to get ready for work or call in and quit.
The light sneaking through my blinds was already taking sides, bright and judgmental.
My phone buzzed. I sighed and groped for it. The screen said Samantha Whitaker.
I’m still not sure whether the phone slipped out of my suddenly sweaty hands or if I threw it, but it skidded across the dusty hardwood and came to rest at the base of Mount Sock. The buzzing stopped.
My heart was pounding, which was stupid. It was just Sam. A shame I’d missed her call, though. Would’ve been nice to catch up—after eight years.
The phone buzzed again.
Oh no. I scrambled up, tangling in the sheets, not sure if I was trying to reach the phone or flee from it. I hit my head on the ceiling and crashed down hard, catching my fall with my elbow. Pain shot up my arm, through my shoulder. My heart felt no pain -- she'd destroyed that by leaving.
I lay there on my back, blankets half on, half off. The phone stopped buzzing again. Thank God.
It started buzzing again.
Groaning, I crawled to it and accepted the call. “Sam?” I croaked.
“Jack? Are you okay?” Her voice slid into my head, light and lilting.
“Sure,” I wheezed. “What’s up?”
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I’ve been wondering what’s happening in your life.”
Why?
“I—uh—just got back from Manakara,” I said. “Africa.” Nailed it. Almost sounded human.
“I know,” she said, her tone a little self-conscious. “I Googled you. That piece about the fading spice trade — really enlightening.”
Enlightening, huh? What did that mean? Had my insight into the plight of the Malagasy people renewed her faith in me?
I could talk about the vanilla fields outside of Manakara forever. The resin stains on the workers’ hands, the smell of smoke and sugar that made the air too heavy — sweet to the point of nausea when the sun got high. The cyclones --
I realized that I'd been silent for too long. "Oh. Uh -- th-thanks," I stuttered.
"How much did that pay?" she asked.
Her question zapped me back from the fields and onto my apartment floor. “Intern,” I managed. I kicked my legs free of the blankets, annoyed that she was still all about the bottom line.
“Oh, wow,” she said, her tone edged with irony. “That sounds fulfilling. What are they paying you, now that you're back?”
I coughed. “Still nothing.” Heat flared in my face. I tried to sit up, failed, and let the sock pile cradle my head. They didn't smell good.
“Wow, that sucks,” she said. “You should write a story about how companies exploit unpaid interns.”
“Yeah. But then they'd fire me. How would I not pay my bills?”
We both laughed — me pathetically, her sympathetically. It was kind of nice.
“You know,” Sam said, “I might be able to help. I’m working for a new tech startup. Right up your alley. Maybe we could meet for coffee, and I’ll tell you about it?”
No. “Yes.”
“Excellent. Tuesday at three?”
No! “Yes!”
She laughed again, and my chest filled with bubbles. “Okay, I’ll see you then.”
She ended the call. The bubbles slowly fizzed out.
I added the appointment to my calendar with shaking fingers. Like I’d forget. Should I show up? No. Would I? Yes.
(Original word count: ~501 → Edited: ~558)
I was lying in bed, debating whether to get ready for work or call in and quit.
The light sneaking through my blinds was already taking sides, bright and judgmental.
My phone buzzed. I sighed and groped for it. The screen said Samantha Whitaker.
I’m still not sure whether the phone slipped out of my suddenly sweaty hands or if I threw it, but it skidded across the dusty hardwood and came to rest at the base of Mount Sock. The buzzing stopped.
My heart was pounding, which was stupid. It was just Sam. A shame I’d missed her call, though. Would’ve been nice to catch up—after eight years.
The phone buzzed again.
Oh no. I scrambled up, tangling in the sheets, not sure if I was trying to reach the phone or flee from it. I hit my head on the ceiling and crashed down hard, catching my fall with my elbow. Pain shot up my arm, through my shoulder. My heart felt no pain -- she'd destroyed that by leaving.
I lay there on my back, blankets half on, half off. The phone stopped buzzing again. Thank God.
It started buzzing again.
Groaning, I crawled to it and accepted the call. “Sam?” I croaked.
“Jack? Are you okay?” Her voice slid into my head, light and lilting.
“Sure,” I wheezed. “What’s up?”
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I’ve been wondering what’s happening in your life.”
Why?
“I—uh—just got back from Manakara,” I said. “Africa.” Nailed it. Almost sounded human.
“I know,” she said, her tone a little self-conscious. “I Googled you. That piece about the fading spice trade — really enlightening.”
Enlightening, huh? What did that mean? Had my insight into the plight of the Malagasy people renewed her faith in me?
I could talk about the vanilla fields outside of Manakara forever. The resin stains on the workers’ hands, the smell of smoke and sugar that made the air too heavy — sweet to the point of nausea when the sun got high. The cyclones --
I realized that I'd been silent for too long. "Oh. Uh -- th-thanks," I stuttered.
"How much did that pay?" she asked.
Her question zapped me back from the fields and onto my apartment floor. “Intern,” I managed. I kicked my legs free of the blankets, annoyed that she was still all about the bottom line.
"How much did that pay?" she asked.
Her question zapped me back from the fields and onto my apartment floor. “Intern,” I managed. I kicked my legs free of the blankets, annoyed that she was still all about the bottom line.
“Oh, wow,” she said, her tone edged with irony. “That sounds fulfilling. What are they paying you, now that you're back?”
I coughed. “Still nothing.” Heat flared in my face. I tried to sit up, failed, and let the sock pile cradle my head. They didn't smell good.
“Wow, that sucks,” she said. “You should write a story about how companies exploit unpaid interns.”
“Yeah. But then they'd fire me. How would I not pay my bills?”
We both laughed — me pathetically, her sympathetically. It was kind of nice.
“You know,” Sam said, “I might be able to help. I’m working for a new tech startup. Right up your alley. Maybe we could meet for coffee, and I’ll tell you about it?”
No. “Yes.”
“Excellent. Tuesday at three?”
No! “Yes!”
She laughed again, and my chest filled with bubbles. “Okay, I’ll see you then.”
She ended the call. The bubbles slowly fizzed out.
I added the appointment to my calendar with shaking fingers. Like I’d forget. Should I show up? No. Would I? Yes.
(Original word count: ~501 → Edited: ~558)
Critique
We've got an interesting premise, a flawed but relatable protagonist who is basically set up to fall into whatever pyramid scheme/medical experiment his ex-girlfriend is about to lead him into, and a mystery to solve.
First, let’s look at the dialogue structure. In this excerpt, the dialogue of both characters are mixed into shared paragraphs. I imagine that this is a stylistic choice, to show that he's still enmeshed in the way that she thinks about him, but I think in this case, the standard way of separating dialogue from different characters into different paragraphs works better, for clarity.
I was also a little confused by this passage:
“Jack? You sound so different. But then, it’s been a while, hasn’t it. I’ve been wondering what’s happening in your life.” I struggled to sound composed but nonetheless stammered a little bit as I searched for words. “Y-yeah Sam, it’s…you sound different too. It’s nice to hear from you though. You must’ve Googled me, right?”
How does Sam asking Jack, "what's up", essentially, result in an assumption that she's Googled Jack? Was Jack speaking from wishful thinking or because every time he cyber stalks Sam, he's hit with the urge to call her? If so, that should be stated, because otherwise, this is a bizarre response from him.
“Wow, that sucks. But that’s the economy, right? Plenty of people are working for free just to get their foot in the door. Then they let you go right before they’d have to hire you and taken on new interns.”
This is way too articulate to be believable. in my edit, I went with:
“Wow, that sucks,” she said. “You should write a story about how companies exploit unpaid interns.”
This reads still a bit more articulate than how people speak, but more natural, with some characterization -- she's always looking for an angle.
Setting
We have two locations, Jack's apartment and Jack's head. This has a noir-ish, pulpy vibe, so this is told in past tense, which means that the location of Jack's head exists in the future. This gives him an opportunity for regret.
However, it's only utilized twice for these two lines, "I scolded myself afterwards for being so eager." and "Long after the call ended, my heart was still racing." I think if we're going to use an older, wiser Jack as the narrator, this POV could be used for foreshadowing, following the noir-ish vibe. Since it wasn't used that way, I just kept to a closer, real time POV in my edit.
For Jack's apartment, we don't get much information. We have a bed that he falls out of, and that's it. I tried to fill in the details a bit -- just the stuff that he would notice, with his focus mostly being on the call.
Characterization
We get to see Jack in several heightened emotional states. We go from shock to nostalgia to self-doubt to regret. With the re-write, I added a little bit of depression, partly because I wanted to start with setting, rather than dialogue, and that's how I feel in the mornings.
Characterization
We get to see Jack in several heightened emotional states. We go from shock to nostalgia to self-doubt to regret. With the re-write, I added a little bit of depression, partly because I wanted to start with setting, rather than dialogue, and that's how I feel in the mornings.
I also added a bit toward the end where his internal voice is saying no to her but his physical voice is saying yes. I did this to replace the explanation of it taking him three years of therapy in order to cut all contact. This more effectively conveys the fact that he knows he shouldn't see her, but she still has a hold on him.
Being a journalist is about objectivity, focus, and a kind of delayed empathy. Depending on his focus, as an intern, he likely would have covered human interest stories, stories focused on the environment, or lighter travel stories. Any of these would shed light onto Jack's character, but we don't get anything more specific than "Africa".
Choosing Manakara grounds the story in specificity, and having Jack cover the vanilla and clove trade makes him sound worldly and idealistic — but his lack of follow-through once he’s home undercuts that image. He’s more interested in appearing deep than in actually engaging deeply.
Sam is more of a mystery. She seems nice...
We know that she just started working for a start-up, and is trying to get Jack involved. Without relying on the blurb, let's look at the clues in the original excerpt that she's about to drag him into something untoward:- They haven't spoken in eight years, and she calls him for no reason -- just thinking about him.
- Her opening line is a generic question about how he's been -- this could indicate a lack of interest in him personally and the fact that she's calling for her own benefit. Also, she doesn't congratulate Jack on his internship in Africa until he brings it up first.
- Her second line immediately asks him what kind of money he's making. Jack assumes she knows it's nothing, but confirms it.
- She jumps on the confirmation to offer an "opportunity". To her ex, whose heart she broke. Nothing in it for her, obviously.
- The ending inner monologue mentions three years of therapy to get over her and Jack seems to be in and out of denial about the affect she still has on him. This suggests some sort of psychological warfare happening on her end, but not conclusive.
Sam’s call mirrors the cadence of a pyramid scheme pitch: generic small talk, a casual inquiry about money, then the irresistible ‘opportunity.’ Readers who are aware this pattern will catch on immediately.
But those not familiar with these tactics, can still rely on Jack's reaction to Sam calling. She's not saying anything interesting or unusual, it's pretty basic small talk, especially at the beginning. But he's a wreck. Not sure if he's happy to hear from her or not, falling out of bed, blurting out a "yes" to coffee because it sounds enough like a date, his heart still racing long after the conversation is over.
Even without the internal monologue about three years of therapy, you can tell that Jack's reaction to Sam is not healthy. That doesn't mean that Sam is a bad person -- just like the people from college call you after eight years aren't bad people. She would most likely be genuinely excited to share this opportunity with her friends. But I don't think she would have called Jack unless body count affected her bottom line.
I do wish that Sam was a bit more of a human being. In my edit, I tried to make her sound a little more human. Instead of being prompted to congratulate him on going to Africa, she compliments him on his article. She at least read the title.
Also, since we can't see Sam, more description of her voice would be helpful. I gave her a "lilt" which has a connotation to me of Irish or Scottish. I didn't want to go overboard, though, since this scene is a fast-paced dialogue sequence.
Conflict/TensionThis excerpt is a mass of conflict, inside and out. We have Jack lying to himself that he's totally over her, but falling over himself to answer the phone so that he can talk to her. When he does talk to her, he can't string more than a few words together, and when she asks him for coffee, he blurts his assent, and then when he hangs up, it takes several minutes for him to recover from the conversation, and start to wonder if he should have turned her down.
- They haven't spoken in eight years, and she calls him for no reason -- just thinking about him.
- Her opening line is a generic question about how he's been -- this could indicate a lack of interest in him personally and the fact that she's calling for her own benefit. Also, she doesn't congratulate Jack on his internship in Africa until he brings it up first.
- Her second line immediately asks him what kind of money he's making. Jack assumes she knows it's nothing, but confirms it.
- She jumps on the confirmation to offer an "opportunity". To her ex, whose heart she broke. Nothing in it for her, obviously.
- The ending inner monologue mentions three years of therapy to get over her and Jack seems to be in and out of denial about the affect she still has on him. This suggests some sort of psychological warfare happening on her end, but not conclusive.
Sam’s call mirrors the cadence of a pyramid scheme pitch: generic small talk, a casual inquiry about money, then the irresistible ‘opportunity.’ Readers who are aware this pattern will catch on immediately.
But those not familiar with these tactics, can still rely on Jack's reaction to Sam calling. She's not saying anything interesting or unusual, it's pretty basic small talk, especially at the beginning. But he's a wreck. Not sure if he's happy to hear from her or not, falling out of bed, blurting out a "yes" to coffee because it sounds enough like a date, his heart still racing long after the conversation is over.
Even without the internal monologue about three years of therapy, you can tell that Jack's reaction to Sam is not healthy. That doesn't mean that Sam is a bad person -- just like the people from college call you after eight years aren't bad people. She would most likely be genuinely excited to share this opportunity with her friends. But I don't think she would have called Jack unless body count affected her bottom line.
I do wish that Sam was a bit more of a human being. In my edit, I tried to make her sound a little more human. Instead of being prompted to congratulate him on going to Africa, she compliments him on his article. She at least read the title.
Also, since we can't see Sam, more description of her voice would be helpful. I gave her a "lilt" which has a connotation to me of Irish or Scottish. I didn't want to go overboard, though, since this scene is a fast-paced dialogue sequence.
Conflict/Tension
This excerpt is a mass of conflict, inside and out. We have Jack lying to himself that he's totally over her, but falling over himself to answer the phone so that he can talk to her. When he does talk to her, he can't string more than a few words together, and when she asks him for coffee, he blurts his assent, and then when he hangs up, it takes several minutes for him to recover from the conversation, and start to wonder if he should have turned her down.
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