Nothing in Between

Nothing in Between

Kenneth Bignell

Years of struggle. A creative writing degree from the University of New Mexico—no easy slog. Cory had poured his heart and soul into story after story, only to be met with rejection after rejection.

He’d given up more than once. He’d watched peers succeed, their books climbing bestseller lists. Some of them deserved it. Many, in his opinion, did not—works of shallow drivel, pandering to a public increasingly enamored with cheap thrills, jump-scare plots, and hollow relationships.

Reality TV in print. Propped up by massive marketing machines more invested in profit than in art.

Selling his soul to the advertising industry had nearly killed him. Literally.

But he’d made it through. He came out the other side with steel in his spine and iron in his heart. He would make it—even if it killed him.

Some good had come of the suicide attempt, at least. He now had more interesting life experience to draw from.

And then there was the promise—the one made by the old man he’d roomed with in the hospital.

“If you really wanna make it, kid, I can help,” the old man rasped. “I had the same problems you do. But someone like me helped me when I was you—young and eager.”

He had to stop then, dragging his oxygen mask to his face, sucking in shallow, trembling breaths. Minutes passed before he could speak again.

“All you have to do is listen to me... do what I tell you...” A wheeze. A pause. “And all your dreams can come true.”

Cory almost smiled. He wanted to humor the man—he didn’t look like he had much longer anyway.

“Alright,” Cory said gently. “Advice from someone older and wiser can’t hurt.”

The old man didn’t respond. His eyes had fluttered shut, and his chest rose and fell in a slow, rattling rhythm. As the silence stretched, Cory figured he’d drifted off.

He turned toward his narrow, uncomfortable bed.

“C...come here,” the old man stammered weakly.

Cory stepped past the little rolling table and approached his bedside.

The man’s face had gone pale and waxy. His breath rattled so loud it made Cory wince.

“Take it easy, friend. Should I call a nurse?”

He reached instinctively for the man’s hand. The skin was hot and dry—feverish—but the old man’s grip clamped down with startling strength.

He yanked Cory closer. “Tired... lean in,” he whispered, “I’ll tell you my secret.”

Cory bent down, bringing his ear close to the man’s dry, cracked lips.

“Hard work never made anyone famous,” the old man whispered. “It’s always fate.”

Cory frowned. Useless. He should’ve known.

Pain exploded in his ear.

The old man’s teeth clamped down—hard—biting into flesh, grinding cartilage.

“Goddamn it! Shit!”

Cory jerked back, stumbling, clutching his bleeding ear.

“What the fuck, old man?!”

The man lay still. Mouth slack. Eyes open and unfocused.

The rattling breath was gone.

“Shit.”

Cory hit the emergency button on the remote by his bed. No way was he getting any closer.

The nurses and doctors swarmed in seconds later. CPR didn’t help. Neither did the defibrillator.

The old man was dead.

Cory left the hospital late that night, bandaged and rattled. He Ubered home to his dark, empty apartment. No one waiting. Not even a cat.

Still buzzing with adrenaline, he sat down at his desk and booted up his computer. Might as well use the energy. Maybe write something about what happened.

His bandaged ear itched. The pain had dulled, but he was sure it would be back before morning.

He had a new email—not spam. Not a rejection, either.

A response to one of the countless query letters he'd sent out.

A request for the full manuscript. Finally.

Hope blossomed in his chest like a Fourth of July firework.

He awoke the next morning disoriented, a dull, hazy ache lurking behind his eyes. A hangover?

No. Probably just the excitement from the night before—or maybe the painkillers from the hospital.

At least his ear didn’t hurt.

His hand went automatically to it. The place where a dying old man had bitten him, of all things.

No bandages.

He sat up straighter, fingers sweeping over his ear. No stitches. No tenderness. No pain at all.

His brow furrowed. That didn’t make sense.

He threw the covers aside and hurried into the bathroom.

The mirror confirmed it—no bandages. No fresh wound.

Just scars. Thin, pale, and definitely healed. Not recent either. These looked like they’d been there for weeks, maybe months.

What the hell?

He leaned in closer. Yes—his ear. His scars. The same curved arc of teeth marks. Faintly off-color, like new skin still adjusting. But no swelling. No stitches. Nothing to suggest it had happened yesterday.

His brain lagged behind, but slowly, memories surfaced—flickers of events strung together like clips from a film missing half its frames.

He remembered getting home. Remembered opening that email. He’d replied, sent off his manuscript. He remembered talking on the phone—days later—with the agent, Stan Hobart. He remembered signing the e-docs, officially accepting representation.

But nothing in between.

Whole days were just… gone.

That also meant the bite wasn't yesterday, but weeks ago. A month? Two months? Maybe. He'd have to look at a calendar. Time was fuzzy.

He stared at his reflection and frowned.

Shock, maybe. That was a thing, right? Trauma made memories slippery. Maybe nothing significant had happened in those missing days. Just filler. Just recovery.

He did feel hungover—though he hadn’t had a drink in months. Or had he? If he didn’t remember, maybe he had.

He turned on the shower. Let the water run hot.

He put it out of his head for the moment. He'd let his subconscious chew on it.

That usually worked.

The answers—and the memories—would return. At least enough of them anyway.

He hoped.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand as he stepped out of the shower.

Incoming call: Stan Hobart.

Cory grabbed it, still toweling off.

“Hello?” His voice came out scratchy, like he’d been out drinking all night. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Hello.”

“Cory! Hey!” came a cheerful voice. “Just calling to make sure you’re good with the arrangements—and that you’ll be on time. I know how it goes when you’re buried in that next novel.”

The voice was warm, confident. Definitely not someone recovering from a long night. Cory felt himself liking the man instantly—whoever he really was.

A fuzzy image surfaced—like movement glimpsed through winter fogged glass.

Light brown hair. Strong jaw. Gray—no, green—eyes. A ready smile. A salesman, but not the sleazy kind. Friendly. Polished.

A flicker—lunch together. Talk of London. A book deal?

Hey, uh… Stan? Can I call you Stan?” Cory kept his tone light. He didn’t want to sound confused. Or worse—crazy.

“Of course you can! What else would you call me, you crazy kidder?” Stan chuckled, clearly amused. "Best literary agent ever?"

“Hey, could you just… remind me of the arrangements? Maybe walk me through the whole thing again? It’s all still kinda surreal. I'd kind of given up hope of this ever happening.”

“No worries, man. You’re not the first first-time author to get the brain conniptions when things go big. Everything’s in that big blue folder I gave you yesterday. Plane tickets, itinerary, talking points—even a copy of the contract, since you said you lost the first one.”

“Right. Must’ve fallen out in an Uber or something.”

“Well don’t lose this one,” Stan teased. “And Cory—this is real. You earned it.”

Cory smiled faintly. He didn’t remember earning it. But he wanted to believe it.

“You’ll be there, right? I’m not doing this solo?”

“Of course! Breakfast at the hotel—8 a.m., London time. Then the signing, then we hit the town. Just like we planned.”

Cory exhaled. “Looking forward to it.”

He meant it. This was everything he’d worked for.

The meeting went great. Stan was a dream agent—smart, funny, tireless. The publishers were onboard too: a generous advance, royalties, sequels. A local tour, regional interviews. Not huge, but real. They believed in him.

He felt ten feet tall.

Stan elbowed him as they parted for the night.

“Bring ideas tomorrow,” he’d said. “Book two. But also—future. Movie rights. Spin-offs. Let’s build something lasting.”

Cory had fallen asleep dreaming of red carpets and silver screens.

He woke the next morning in an unfamiliar place.

Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows. He blinked against the glare and rolled over.

He looked around.

This wasn’t his suite in London.

He sat up and looked out of the windows.

A lush green lawn stretched to the edge of a cliff. Beyond that, a deep blue ocean shimmered under the morning sun. Rolling waves. Clear sky.

Definitely not London.

And then it hit him.

Memories crashed down like a pane of stained glass dropped on gray stone.

Years.

Fragmented—but enough. A decade since the book deal.

There had been other books. Sequels. Two anthologies of short stories. A movie that flopped, but helped boost sales anyway. Money. Fame.

The split with Stan—missed calls, waning attention. Cory had moved on. A string of new agents.

Fame.

But the memories were thin. Patchy. A montage of glossy scenes with nothing in between. The dull moments—gone. No filler. Just the curated highlights, like someone had edited his life into a promo reel.

He must be going mad.

That was the only explanation.

Wasn’t it?

But everything felt clear. Grounded. Too vivid to be a dream.

Rational.

But would he know if he weren't?

He dressed slowly, moving through the house like a guest unsure of his welcome.

The kitchen was unfamiliar, but his hands found the coffee maker instinctively. Muscle memory. A decade’s worth, apparently.

He stood by the counter as the machine hummed to life, staring through the huge windows at the sea. This wasn’t just a dream. It felt too real. The ache in his back. The faint tremor in his fingers. The smell of fresh coffee.

He brought a hand to his ear.

The scar was still there.

That was where it started, wasn’t it?

The old man in the hospital. The promise. The bite.

He hadn’t thought about that in days—or was it years now? Decades? Time was slippery. Distorted. But something about that moment—that bite—stood out now like a crack in the windshield of his world view.

He remembered the pain. The panic. The confusion. Then the email. The request for his manuscript. Then—just a blur. Flashes.

And every time since then—every time he remembered wanting something more, dreaming of it—it had come true.

And always… with gaps. Always with the boring parts, the hard parts, the grind—missing.

Just the highlights.

What if the bite hadn’t just marked the start of a new life—but created it?

The old man had said something. Something about dreams coming true. All Cory had to do was listen. Do as he was told.

But he hadn’t done anything. Not really. Not that he remembered.

He stared into his coffee, unblinking.

Was this the price? The deal?

Skip the struggle—live only the rewards. But lose the truth. Lose the time.

How many years had passed since the bite? How many times had he dreamed bigger and bigger, only to wake further down the road?

A chill passed through him.

What if he wished for more again?

What would he lose next?

He didn’t leave the house that day.

He knew, now. Or at least, he believed. His success hadn’t been earned. It had been… given. Gift-wrapped, one perfect moment after another, each leap forward leaving time and effort and entire chapters of his life behind.

It explained the missing years. The patchwork memories. The clean arc of his career—like a fictional character, skipping straight from inciting incident to climax.

No middle. No struggle. No life.

And it was happening again. He could feel it.

That familiar itch, crawling at the base of his skull. That old, eager fantasy returning uninvited.

The awards.

A Hugo. A Nebula. A room of roaring applause as he stepped onto a stage in a perfectly tailored tux.

The legacy.

Professors assigning his books in classrooms. His name on "top ten" lists. A framed photo of him on some future author’s desk.

The immortality.

It came in flashes—unasked for, yet vivid.

He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes.

No. Not again. He didn’t want to lose more time. Didn’t want to wake up another decade ahead, wondering what it had cost.

He would write another book. The hard way. Sentence by sentence. He’d stay grounded. Present.

But the day dragged on in a haze.

He tried to focus, to write something—anything—but his hands hovered uselessly above the keyboard. The words wouldn’t come. Not without the struggle. Not without the pain.

He stared at the blank screen, heart pounding.

This is what you wanted, something whispered.

You just forgot to read the terms.

That night he lay awake with the perfect moon shining through the glass wall of his room.

He kept his eyes open.

Afraid to dream.

He held out longer than he thought he would.

Days passed. Then weeks. No jumps. No fractured time. No flashes of awards, premieres, or speeches echoing in his dreams.

He stayed present. He wrote. Slowly. Clumsily. The words didn’t sing the way they once had. His sentences felt flat, his ideas ordinary.

But he was living again. Real time. Real moments.

And still... it wasn’t enough.

The ache returned—not the ache in his back or joints, but the deeper one, threaded through his soul. That small, glistening hunger. Not for comfort. Not even for wealth.

For legacy. To be remembered.

He tried to ignore it. Fought it. But he found himself lingering on the thought more and more:

What if I could have just one more leap? Just enough to secure my place—not in bestseller lists, but in history?

A Pulitzer.

One of the few awards that still mattered.

One final mark on the world. Something no one could ever erase.

That night, he stood at the window staring out at the dark.

Just one more, he whispered into the dark.

Then I’ll stop. I swear it.

He awoke to the sound of mechanical beeping.

His mouth was dry. His chest felt like stone. Something hissed softly near his head. Plastic tubes. Cool air.

The light was pale and flickering.

A hospital room.

His hand moved feebly to his ear. The scar was still there—but his fingers were gnarled and pale, the skin loose and spotted. Old.

So old.

It was hard to breathe. Hard to think. His memories were ghosts. Hazy images. A shelf of books with his name. A silver medal on a velvet ribbon. Photographers. A long speech he couldn’t remember giving.

He had gotten his wish.

The Pulitzer was his.

And now, there was nothing left but this broken body and the creeping fog of a mind too full of gaps to hold the joy of it.

Across the room, a young man sat on a narrow bed, arms wrapped around his knees, eyes distant. Hospital gown. Thin frame. A bandage around one wrist.

A suicide survivor.

Cory recognized the look.

He saw himself—just before it had all begun.

He knew now. Knew with the aching clarity of the damned: this gift, this curse, this impossible power—it had to go somewhere. That was the bargain. The last step in the chain.

And he would not find peace until he passed it on.

He fumbled for the oxygen mask and took it off, struggling for air.

“Kid,” he rasped.

The young man looked up, startled.

“If you… really wanna make it…” Cory began. His voice was a cracked whisper, barely audible.

The boy stood, hesitating before moving closer. “What?”

Cory reached out. His hand trembled violently, but he gripped the boy’s wrist with surprising strength.

“I can help you,” he breathed. “Someone helped me… when I was you.”

The boy’s eyes widened.

“Alright,” the boy said softly. “Advice from someone older and wiser can’t hurt.”

Forgive me, Cory thought. But the boy was already too close.

“Hard work never made anyone famous,” Cory whispered. “It’s always fate...”