Longing to write a novel and starting the process is simple. One should be very careful about committing mistakes because writing a novel is very demanding. The most common mistakes in freelance creative writing include repetition as well as the overuse of specific concepts and storylines.

You must be patient when writing a novel. One must have a certain plan which should include the development of an outline. This is a critical step. The plan will direct you as you embark on the novel writing process. A successful novel is consists of well defined characters and places. Make sure that you provide your characters an amount of history and that you make use of vivid detail in describing places.  In freelance creative writing, it is important for you to be able to express your thoughts in print form at the same time keeping a logical sequence. Sometimes you may find yourself out of ideas. If this happens, take a break and give your brain a time to relax. Learning how to write a novel is rather simple. Writing one that is successful poses a greater challenge. Creativity and dedication are necessary to achieve this goal. Do not begin writing a novel unless you know how to write a successful one. Remember that there are a lot of possible strategies for successful freelance creative writing but you have to choose which is more alluring. Don’t confuse readers by mixing various strategies.

Many people think that only talented writers should engage in novel writing. They do not know that talent alone can’t help anyone reach the peak of success unless he or she knows how to write a successful novel. Many people know how to write a novel but only a small number know how to write a successful one. You must be capable of conveying your message effectively. Be conscious of the world around you and select a suitable structure for your novel. This also counts in the development of a novel outline. The two important elements on effective freelance creative writing are perseverance and preparation.

Ghostwriting services are aware that the readers need to be able to delve into the minds of the characters. This is done by enabling the readers to sneak a peek into their minds and interpret the actions that the characters undertake. The way in which the characters handle various circumstances lets the reader know what type of person the character is. Characters can be high strung, emotionless, among other personalities.

Dialogues that involve various characters can also be very revealing. The way that the character speaks also reflects the character’s personality in terms of style and even education background. The creation of characters should involve revelations of their weaknesses that make them human. This is especially important when dealing with the leading role’s character. The human emotions of characters can form the basis of the story. These tips are essential for any writer who wants to achieve success.

To learn more about writing a novel or get in touch with this service, click on the link.

A romantic novel can only be successful if the leading characters of the story are well chosen. These particular characters should be easily identified by the readers. The readers need to feel that they can relate to them and understand what they are going through as they face the huddles of their relationship. The creation of such characters should be defined by the way that society presently perceives romance. These tips can help writers learn more about how to create their leading characters in a story.

A large percentage of readers of romance novels are female readers. This means that the hero of the story should strike a chord with the female readership. Women are drawn to characters that are aesthetically appealing, powerful, tender, adventurous and courageous. The main female character in the novel should be someone who the reader aspires to be. Modern romance novels steer away from needy, dependent and weak female characters. The characters should have human flaws that the readers can empathize with.

Conflict is an indispensable aspect of romance novels. Villains are a typical source of this kind of conflict. The role that the villain takes on in the story strongly determines his or her character traits and physical appearance. An interesting angle is to use innocent characters and transform them into villains who are overwhelmed by their emotional attachment to one of the leading characters.

The tips mentioned here are valuable for people who want to write various types of novels ad create memorable characters for their novels.

To learn more about writing a novel or get in touch with this service, click on the link.

A romantic novel can only be successful if the leading characters of the story are well chosen. These particular characters should be easily identified by the readers. The readers need to feel that they can relate to them and understand what they are going through as they face the huddles of their relationship. The creation of such characters should be defined by the way that society presently perceives romance. These tips can help writers learn more about how to create their leading characters in a story.

A large percentage of readers of romance novels are female readers. This means that the hero of the story should strike a chord with the female readership. Women are drawn to characters that are aesthetically appealing, powerful, tender, adventurous and courageous. The main female character in the novel should be someone who the reader aspires to be. Modern romance novels steer away from needy, dependent and weak female characters. The characters should have human flaws that the readers can empathize with.

Conflict is an indispensable aspect of romance novels. Villains are a typical source of this kind of conflict. The role that the villain takes on in the story strongly determines his or her character traits and physical appearance. An interesting angle is to use innocent characters and transform them into villains who are overwhelmed by their emotional attachment to one of the leading characters.

The tips mentioned here are valuable for people who want to write various types of novels ad create memorable characters for their novels.

To learn more about writing a novel or get in touch with this service, click on the link.

While you go about your daily life you may have encountered times when you suddenly have a great idea for your novel, only to realize that you have nothing to record your ideas on. The first rule in learning how to write an original fast is to keep a record of your ideas as they come to you. These ideas may help you during the moments when a writer encounters something called “writer’s block.” Sometimes inspirations come in the most unexpected times and places. A good way to keep a record of your ideas anytime and anywhere is with the use of a digital recorder.

Important Tools

Many authors used to walk around with writing pads and take notes of ideas that come to them. Writing pads were a common tool in the past but now many writers prefer using tape recorders or digital recorders. Many voice recorders are small enough to be worn around making them ideal to use. Some of them are even smaller than a cell phone or MP3 player.

Voice Recorder Advantage

Voice recorders offer various conveniences for writers. You can buy a digital recorder with the amount of memory that suits you depending on how much information you want stored on the recorder. Voice recorders are inexpensive and can be connected to your computer whenever you want to transfer data. If you really want to write a novel fast, you have to employ different strategies. A voice recorder is a very helpful tool.

But wait. There in red inc was his final grade: 55%. He panicked, his heart sank and he began to shake. How could this be, he thought. He had clearly answered the question and justified his statements. He wondered who was behind this. Was it a joke? He must speak to Jack at once. He phoned Julie.

“Julie? Julie! Julie!

“What? Calm down.”

“ You have to help me. Jack just flunked me. He gave me a 55 on the final.”

“A 55 percent?”

“Yes.”

“But how?”

“I got a 5/50 for the pro section.”

“Well I don’t know what to tell you. You’re going to have to deal with this one on your own. He’ll be home
in about an hour.”

That’s it? You can’t help me?
“I’m not Jack; I have no control over what he does.
“Whatever. Fine!”

Manuel had never experienced failure. At least not like this. This was supposed to be the one subject he knew something about. He was forced to question his future as an FBL agent. Physically, he was in the top ten percentile. Academically, he thought the same. But there before him, circled in red inc, was the contradiction to his identity. This single event had stomped out any future hope of his joining the ranks of the FBL. But he would not leave silently.

Manuel made plans to meet with Jack – face to face. He had only seen him in pictures before or silhouetted in his convertible with the top up. Now he would stand before him, a person, alive.

“How incredibly awkward,” he thought. “Who’d have thought we would have met under such bizarre circumstances – Julie, Jack and me, eating dinner together and discussing my ever-diminishing future as an FBL agent? And I’m getting old.”

“How Many?”

“Well, my boyfriend’ll be joining us, so, three.”

“Smoking or non?”

“Umm.”

“Smoking! You still smoke, don’t you Julie. Or did Jack make you quit them too?”

“No. One thing at a time he says. He’s content for now, thinking I quit smoking maristisy. But Jack doesn’t like me smoking around him. You know, both of his parents dying from lung cancer and all. Then again, you’re right; this is a democracy and he’s outnumbered.”

“Yeah, and he’s not even here anyway so what choice does he have in the matter?”

“Okay, if you will follow me right this way please.”

It was just after ten o’clock on a Sunday and the restaurant, Denny’s, was extremely busy. They served alcohol at this one, but by all other standards it was still a family restaurant. From his booth Manuel could see an employee, a busboy probably, outside the window with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, pretending to sweep the parking lot.

“You see that?” he said, pointing out the window, “That’s gonna be me for at least the rest of this year if Jack doesn’t hire me.”

“He will. You’re plenty qualified anyway.”

“Yeah, but the FBL is pretty competitive these days.”

“You wouldn’t want to work for him anyway,” she said, looking at her watch, “He’s always late.”

“You know what they say about boyfriends who are late don’t you?”

“No, what?”

“I don’t know either, but I’m sure it isn’t good.”

“Let me use your lighter before Jack gets here.”

Manuel slid his lighter across the table and Julie lit up a cigarette, coughed up a phloem ball and spit it under the table.

“Well that was rather childish.”

“Well I wasn’t going to swallow it.”

Manuel smelled the faint scent of maristacy.

“Do you smell that,” he asked.

Julie smirked, took a drag of her cigarette. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“It’s only half and half; it won’t smell that bad.”

“Can I have a cigarette? And a piece of gum?”

“I don’t know, can you?”

“Maybe you should become a teacher. You have all the lame jokes mastered.”

Yeah, maybe. Here,” he said, sliding the lighter across the table. “It’s childproof though. Are you a child?”

“No. Why, do you think so?”

“No, but you are compared to Jack. He’s almost twice your age. I thought five years was bad, but he’s got us topped, that’s for sure. ”

“You always were good with math, but he’s not almost twice my age, he’s exactly twice my age — 18 and 36.”

“He’s 36! Wow! Anyway, about my always having been good at math. You do remember who got you through senior year of calculus last year don’t you?”

“Yes. You would spend all your time at my house, tutoring me. Still, you somehow graduated from college. Pretty good grades too.”

“Tutor! Is that all I was, a tutor?”

“No, you were a friend too, one with fringe benefits. Still are. “

“Oh.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s just that we haven’t come along very far in our relationship. You’re still with him. We’re still sneaking around.”

“Yeah, but just wait a little longer. Until you’re hired. But, even then, you should wait until you’re tenured. I’ve fictionalized your character to his liking, so you should be getting some real fringe benefits soon. All the employees get retirement, dental, medical. The whole works, you know? I told Jack how you used to tutor me, except I said this took place at the library with other students and that you did it for free. Because you just love math sooo much. You’re so talented Manuel. Why don’t you do something with it?”

“Thanks for the boost of confidence; it’ll certainly help. But I’m so nervous. I’ve never actually met him, unless you count seeing him pull into your driveway as I fled out the back door. So he’s pretty much in charge of the hiring for the FBL, huh?”

“Basically. You’ll do fine. Just relax.”

“I would be relaxed if I didn’t have to worry about wolf nose smelling maristacy on me. He’s such a hypocrite. He argues against you smoking because his parents died from lung cancer, but he’s an alcoholic and your Dad died from cirrhosis of the liver.”

“But I don’t really care if he drinks, even if he does do it like a fish. That’s probably because I don’t really care about him any more.”

“If you say so. Hey where the hell’s our server?”

“I don’t know; they’re busy. What’s your hurry anyway?”

“Nothing, just wondering if anyone’s working here. Well I got to take a piss; I’ll be right back. Order me a coffee if the server comes would ya’?”

“Yup.”

As Manuel was walking away, he saw the server walking toward their table. He went into the stall and had a few puffs of maristacy, fixed his hair, and took a piss. When he returned there was a steamy cup of coffee waiting for him.

Jack, running late as usual, was just leaving his house. It was the one-year anniversary of his mother’s death; Jack’s father had not held on quite as long as her, for he had passed away nearly seven years ago. Jack was not entirely alone on his ride to Denny’s; accompanying him on his drive was a bottle of 151, which he talked to as if it were his mother; he asked it for advice and was surprised when it did not answer. He loved it and each time he pressed his lips to it he was taken back to when he was a child, kissing his mother goodnight. She was always first, followed by his father. He could remember the prickly feeling of his father’s mustache against his cheek.

It was approximately a twenty-minute ride to Denny’s from Jack’s house, but the radio being broken, time seemed to move more slowly for him. Having no music to distract him, Jack had nothing to do but think. And drink:

“God I’m pathetic. It’s not even ten in the morning and I’m drowning my sorrows in alcohol. Why should it matter what time it is anyway? This pain I carry inside of me is there day as well as night. You’re the only thing I can rely on in this world,” thought Jack as he took a gulp from his bottle. “Everything else dies on me or leaves me or cheats on me. So lonely. At least I have Julie. And I’m not gonna let her leave me – I’d become more mad than I already am. Then again, I don’t know that anything would bother me as long as I have you.”

Jack rubbed his hands against the bottle, pulled into the parking space, hitting the curb before he could stopped, screeching the car in reverse and parking, crooked but within the lines. He pulled himself out of the car and made his way into the restaurant.

“Ooo, Here comes Jack. And give me that damn lighter!” said Julie.

Jack walked toward their booth, trying to stand up straight, but tripping over his foot and stumbling to his seat. His breath reeked of alcohol and before introducing himself he called the waitress over for a beer. Except they couldn’t sell beer because it was Sunday and there were more than two hours until noon.

He became furious, started swearing, shouting, standing on the table. The whole works. You could tell he’d already had a few in him. His face had become crimson, the blood rushing to his head, the vein on his sweat-covered and balding head, bulging as he shouted obscenities. Manuel, is it?” he asked at length.

“Yes.”

“In short, your test has been reviewed and the decision remains. You do not fit the profile.”

And that was that. There was nothing more to say on the subject. But Manuel would still wreak the rewards of an FBL income. He practically lived in Jack’s home. He’d been there several dozen times before, just the two of them. They’d go immediately to the bathroom where they’d ritually smoke maristicy, always from a homemade pipe constructed on the scene. This was half of the fun, they thought. A little arts and crafts.

The benefits of smoking in the shower were twofold: first, the obvious, they were naked and high, which was a plus for them. In addition, the shower had a ventilator, which sucked out all the smoke. When they had completed their session they wouldn’t smell. This was crucial because they could never be certain when Jack would return. Just last week when Julie and Manuel had finished showering they dried off, put on their shirts. There was banging on the door.

“Honey, let me in,” said Jack. He was turning the knob, shaking it back and forth. Manuel’s heart beat visibly through his sweater and he opened the window the rest of the way. Leading with his head, he braced himself for the fall.

“Just a minute, I’m almost done,” said Julie.

For a bathroom, the window was fairly large and it swung out, making it easier to escape from. But this was little relief from the fifteen-foot fall. Nervous, Manuel didn’t think to lead with his feet. Jack was crashing his hip on the door, demanding it be opened. This was warning enough for Manuel and he jumped, his half naked body somehow managing, mid-flight, to contort itself and land erect on the pile of leaves. Julie dropped down his clothes. Even with the edge of the house, they disappeared from the height of the bathroom. A crashing sound and the door opened, the leaves crunched, the light flickered and the night was silence. Manuel had buried himself beneath the leaves.

“Why is this window open?” asked Jack.

“I thought I saw a shooting star. I wanted to make a wish.”

Jack leaned out the window, looked up at the sky. The gray and endless clouds blot out the stars. “I don’t think you saw a shooting star.”

“Well, my mistake. Maybe it was just the lights of an airplane.”

Jack looked down at the pile of leaves. “I thought I told you to get rid of those leaves. They’re gonna attract mice. What the hell have you been doing all day?”

“I’ll get them right now, honey,” she said, shutting the window and blinds.

They had come to master this art of escape, but Manuel was becoming impatient and he wondered how much longer he would have to lead this double-life.

In the event that they were able to complete their shower sessions, they would make their way to Julie’s room, which gave a clear view of any cars pulling into the driveway. Their room smelled like a brewery on account of Jack’s setting up an office in there where he would drink and analyze data.

Directly next to the bed there was a stereo system. An odd place for it, but Manuel had convinced Julie that it was a good idea because she could still listen to the radio in bed when she lost her remote, which she frequently did. They turned the radio on, played the latest bootleg music disc.

Lying next to Julie on the warm, Queen-sized water bed, Manuel tugged at the velvet blankets. “Knock it off,” she muttered.

“Knock it off,” he mimicked. Julie turned round on the bed and faced the wall, her buttocks facing Manuel. He pressed himself against her. She could feel him and she sat erect in bed. “Leave me alone. I just want to lay down.”

“What’s gotten into you lately?”

“Nothing. I keep telling you, I’m fine.”

“I know. And each time it seemed like you were about to pour out your soul, but then you remained silent. Seriously, Jules, you have to tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I wish I could. Everything just got so fucked up!”

“What? What’s fucked up? My career?”

“No. God no! I wish I hadn’t met you Manuel.”

“How could you say that.”

“I’m not who you think I am Manuel. I’ll tell you some other time.”

“Honey, we all have our secrets. Just tell me.”

Jack celebrated his 40th birthday, and Julie gave him a candle for his present. Although Manuel was not there the day Julie gave it to him, he remember going to the flea market with her to help pick out a gift. Jewel and Manuel, alone, together again. She would always blush when he called her Jewel.

“Jack only calls me that when he wants something,” she would say. But he already knew that; he had jokingly told him in his office on more than one occasion. He told him all he would need to know. Like how Julie’s interest in foreign nations stressed him out and caused him to drink.

“Good thing she doesn’t ask me about that anymore. I don’t know what I would have done otherwise; it drove me crazy,” he’d say.

Shopping for Jack’s birthday present was one of the rare opportunities Julie and Manuel had to be together outside of her house; they had been planning to go to the movies for months, but Jack wouldn’t allow that. Nothing Jack did surprised him anymore; he was a mad man and he saw everyone as a possible threat.

“Jack, would you mind if I went to see a movie with my friend Michelle?” Julie asked several months ago.

“What, aren’t I good enough company for you? You gotta go to the movies with your friends? You’re not married to them. You’re married to me damn it! There will probably be guys there too won’t there?” shouted Jack.

Between the conversations Jack and Manuel had had in school and what Julie had told him, he felt as though he already knew what Jack liked, what he loved, and who he loved; he loved her too. And he still wonders if this was why he froze in the flea market when they passed a table of aromatic candles. About a dozen of them were burning brightly, their aroma drawing them nearer, the flames igniting the silent hatred within Manuel.

“It’s perfect! Smells good, looks good, probably burns well too. He could light it while he finishes his paperwork. It’ll remind him why his work is so important and that all foreign books must be burned,” he laughed.

“And we can use it to cover up the smell of our smoke; we won’t be trapped in the bathroom anymore.”

“Well, okay, but which one? Tangerine, honeydew, grapefruit?”

“How about this one? Strawberry. Remember the time we made love in the strawberry fields?”

“How could I forget? My underwear will smell like strawberry fields forever. Well it’s settled then, I’ll get it. Actually, I’ll get two.”

Fortunately for Manuel, or perhaps unfortunately, people are predictable. For the next seven days, Jack and Julie did exactly what he told her they would: He lit the candle and did his paper work, and she used it to cover up the smell of the maristicy. On the seventh day, a Sunday, Julie and Manuel once again took advantage of Jack’s absence; he was at a bar.

Manuel took the path he had taken so many times before – against the house, under the evergreen tree, the needles prickling his face, and then to the back window, climbing in headfirst and flipping over the windowsill, surprising Julie who was watching television, high as a skyscraper.

They lit the candle, smoked one, and with clever arrangement, they were off to the movies. It took a lot of convincing to get Julie to go to the movies with Manuel; she said Jack would be angry. Even if she did lie and say she was going to the megamarket to get him some clothes.

Manuel needed to see a movie. He needed to escape. The thoughts were coming with greater frequency and intensity. One moment he was a pound of pressure away from pulling the trigger and the next, complete bliss, Julie and him, together and in perfect harmony. He just wanted to laugh, to smile, to be alive. But he felt so dead and so alone – even though he was surrounded with so many of his friends. But they were just background noise, like the chatter of the factories, the sound of his computer voice. None of them knew who he was. Like everyone he had ever met, he was too afraid to become attached. Perhaps it was the fear of rejection or the thought of tasting love and having to spit it right back out. Either way, he was straddling the fence and it was hurting his balls. Something had to go. He hoped it would not be him.

It was a manic fork in the road – good and evil – and he could have chosen either one. But he had experienced love, had only peeked into its potential, but now there was no turning back. He did not know what this word meant – love – had not experienced it in its truest form. All he knew was that it was something he needed more of. No more was contempt nor disdain. It did not matter if he was the only one who felt this way; he would show them the way. So much love, so much hate. The choice was clear. He just needed a way to be with the one who felt the same, who could feel the same.

Manuel had been seeing a lot more of Crystal by this time and he had all but given up on any future with Julie. She was loyal to the Party and to the Party alone. It was Crystal, however, who had reassured him, with whom he shared common ground. They were both quite adventurous and unleashed the child within each other, all the while working together on the issue of Languagism.

It is an interesting thing how the mind works. It was true that Manuel had several reasons to want Jack to just disappear: he rejected his application into the Bureau and he was married to Julie – yet he never consciously decided to kill him. He had shown Julie how to set the alarm on the stereo, had set it on full-blast, and out of all the dates in the world he could have set it for, he chose the one day he knew Jack would be alone, would be most likely to be passed out on the bed.

It was on this seventh day that Jack realized he didn’t have Julie as controlled as he would have liked. He believed that she would change. He believed he could change her and that they would live together forever.

That their flame would never die.

And it probably never would have had Jack himself not died.

He could not be certain of the details that took place when Jack came home, and in the beginning he liked to imagine Jack came home an hour later, already drunk from the many hours he spent at the bar. He saw the planted evidence and immediately went for the bottle of 151, taking large gulps from it as he took out his family album and reminisced about the good times he had had with his parents. He couldn’t bear to lose another loved one the same way. He was tormented, feeling helpless in his desire to prevent history from repeating itself.

He was sitting on his bed and put the book aside for a moment. He looked at the candles, picking up the one on the right speaker, placing it in his hands and becoming mesmerized by the flame. After what seemed like only a moment, but was evidently much longer judging by the candle, which was burnt all but half way, he awoke himself from his nightmare only to realize that this was not a dream at all. He thought of the nightmares he had had as a child – falling from a cliff, robbing a bank, murdering someone.

Manuel told Julie about the one recurring dream he had been having. He would see himself in bed sleeping, and then his bed would burst into flame. Soon, his whole bed was blazing with fire. There was nothing he could do to save himself. He screamed. He shook himself. But still nothing.

Finally he would awake, sweat running down his temples, his heart racing in comfort, comprehending that this was only a dream. These nightmares were ultimately a source of happiness, for they allowed him to realize that he could be far worse off. He knew that this was not such an occasion. The fearful reality had set in; he would be forever tortured by her lying and deceit. He probably exaggerated the situation in his mind for he thought that she would die at any moment. He did not know how to deal with this.

Seeing the solidified wax on the sides of the candle, he scrapped it out, balled it up and threw it into the puddle of melted wax. But it was too late; the solidified wax raised the level of liquefied wax, causing the wick to drown. He had only intended to cause the candle to conform to the shape of its container, but now it was extinguished. He put the candle back on the speaker, the smoke rising as he gazed at the lit candle on the left side of the speaker. It stared at him as he polished off half the bottle of 151. He passed out hugging the liquor, half of the alcohol in him and half of it spilling, forming a blanket around him.

The stereo alarm went off, belting out the foreign lyrics. The candle on the left speaker began to dance with the beat, and it projected a halo of light on the white ceiling. It moved toward the edge. It fell, igniting the alcohol. Jack remained asleep as the bed and house were quickly engulfed with flame, burning away any evidence.

Mere speculation?

Several weeks later, Manuel told Julie about the recurring dream Jack had had – seeing himself lying in bed, blazing with flame.

Julie was visibly shaken by this foreshadowing death. “He never told me anything about those dreams.”

“You don’t suppose one knows everything about their significant other. Do you?”

Manuel looked up at the clock and murmured a string of curses from under his breath, the particularities of which were audible to him alone. He had to leave for work. This would be his fourteenth consecutive day working at the megamarket and he was, as always, working alone – midnight till noon. But he needed the money; he was taking some history courses through Tele Community College. He didn’t want to be a lifer at the megamarket. After earning his degree in history, he planned to attend the Federal Bureau of Language Academy. He had it all mapped out.

He left the table without a word and began the three-block walk to the subway station, his feet mechanically marching, his backpack bouncing on his shoulders, and his computer book on and in the palm of his hand. In the other hand was a lit cigarette and as he walked he read a few sentences, smoked, and intermittently glanced up at the crowded city streets.

The people, always the people, pressing, pushing, carrying you with them. There were just too many of them – in the air, on the sea, the land and in their tunnels, they bounced around each other, ziging and zaging up and around, intersecting and cutting back to avoid collision. When preoccupied, as was often the case, they would not focus on each other and the colors of faces blurred, became like the mixing of paints swirling into a new color. Red, white, black. Add a drop here, a squirt there, splash it around. Whala! Welcome to America.
Manuel too was not consciously aware of his surroundings; he was transfixed in his book: The History of the Universal Language Laws. He could have listened to the text, but he preferred reading. Furthermore, he did not want to give his brother the satisfaction of supporting his business. They seemed always to be arguing about something.

Manuel did not notice the cameras, which littered the city at every corner. Nor was he aware of their audio- and visual-language recognition devises. It did not matter. Like a grown elephant made helpless from years of heavy chains and failed escapes, Manuel had been contained, had given up. If only for the time being.

One thousand times a second the technologies scanned the crowded city streets, the eyes searching for foreign words, the ears distinguishing between hundreds of thousands of on-going dialogues. Differentiating among the word patterns, sounds and letter constructions of thousands of languages, the computers searched the citizens for texts – newspapers, books, magazines. Even the written word. Weather written in inc, crayon, pencil or blood, the enormous database could detect any non-English words. Foreign words, smuggled under the guise of a transporters, were equally susceptible to the FBL’s x-ray technologies, which could penetrate a briefcase, a pocket, a bag. Almost anything.

A perfect lip reader, the machines monitored the many citizens who, when in a state of emotion, found it impossible not to mouth their words. Out of nowhere a thought would pervade their mind. They would struggle to remember it and move their mouths, trying to recall the different elements of the scene, trying to sort through the various events. The Bureau’s technology would be there, monitoring any foreign words or sounds emitted from their mouths. All this was still a mystery to him.

Manuel walked throughout the sea of people, his head up and weaving throughout the pedestrians. Then down, absorbed in his reading and the people moving out of his way. He finished the chapter and scanned the summary: the counter productivity of a multi-lingual world; years of wasted energy learning other languages; the language of Shakespeare; the language with far more words than any other; easier to communicate. And something about it being easier to overcome prejudice.

“Boom!” Manuel bumped into a woman who had stopped to look up at the tall buildings, apparently an attempt to figure out where she was. She fell and Manuel helped her up. Her smile shined like the sun’s rays, cutting through the gloomy smog of the city and straight to Manuel’s heart. His body relaxed and his downcast eyes focused on the cracked sidewalk where her belongings lie: a purse, a map, and a computer watch, complete with Internet and cellular phone capabilities among other things. Similar to his.

Both sets of eyes focused more closely on the phone, their attention peeked by the deformed shape of its wrist unit. It was broken and she knelt down to assess the damage. “Cock sucker, mother fucker,” she said, shoving the cracked screen in front of Manuel’s face.

Manuel was taken aback by the young woman’s language. Not because he himself did not swear, but because the words sounded so foreign, so dirty coming from her mouth. “I’m so sorry,” he said, the two of them ducking into an alleyway and the people hustling by. “I would be more than happy to buy you a new one. I’m Manuel, what’s your name?”

The woman looked at Manuel, studied him. “Julie,” she said, pointing at her chest, “I can’t do my job without this. I have all my shit saved on here.” She tried to access her files, but they would not open. She squeezed the device together and pressed the telephone button, spoke into its microphone, “Headquarters.” It began to ring. “It’s me Babe,” Julie said to her boss, her husband. “Tell me you updated all the files, Hun.”
“Well yeah, why?”

“Some guy ran into me and I dropped my watch. I can’t access any of the files.”

“Great, she forgot my name already,” thought Manuel.

“No problem. I’m downloading them right now. I had a hunch you had run into some trouble.”

“You know me so well, hun. You’ll see me in a little bit”

“Sooner than you think,” he said, hanging up the phone.
Manuel asked, “Well how can I get a hold of you to repay you?”
Julie hesitated for a moment, read a few sentences on Manuel’s computer watch and extended a hand, which clenched a business card: Julie Featherton, Computer Programmer, Federal Bureau of Language, 555-9807. Manuel’s eyes bulged as he read this and noticed its authentic look. In the background, and taking up the entire card, was the FBL logo – a solitary eagle peering down on the world.

“How do I know you’re not going to just disappear and that I’m never going to see my money?”

“You’ll see me again.”

“That’s not what I asked,” she mouthed.

“Would you like to see my license?”

“Actually, yes.”

Manuel took out his license and she copied down the information, snickering at his photo. “It’s a bad picture, I know. I get paid next Friday,” he said, changing the subject. “It’s biweekly, so I’ll call you at work to arrange a meeting.”

“Why don’t you just email it?” she asked.

“Sure. If you’d prefer that.”

“Yes. It would be easier. It’s at 2001 Main Street. But before you go, do you know how to get there?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m going to Main Street right now if you’d like to come along. I work in the Megamarket.”

Julie nodded in agreement and they began to walk the final few blocks to the subway station. Manuel became more uncomfortable with each stride of silence. There were so many things he wanted to ask her about the FBL. But he couldn’t think of a clever way to bring them up. If he were online he would be himself, confident and at ease behind the anonymity of a computer screen. This, however, was one of those rare face-to-face encounters. After a few more minutes of silence, the atmosphere had become too intense and he forced himself to speak. “So, you’re a programmer at the Federal Bureau of Language, huh? W-w-w-what’s that entail?” he stammered.

“It’s mostly classified. But I do just what the job title states; I program many of the government’s computers. Jack, my boss, just tells me what function needs to be served and I make it happen.

“Hmmm. Sounds interesting. Is Jack the one you were talking with on your phone?”

“Yes.”

“It sounded like the two of you have an interesting relationship – business and personal I presume?”
“Strictly business.”

“Yeahmm,” he mumbled. “I’m planning to apply to the Academy after I graduate from Tele Community College.
I’ve wanted to work for the FBL as long as I can remember. In the technology field. Just as soon as I’m done with my history degree.”

“Yeah. Well, good luck,” she said.

Manuel and Julie approached the station and as they entered the turn-style, an elderly, unshaven man asked Manuel for some change. “Sorry,” Manuel said, “I’m broke. No, I wish I were broke; I’m in debt and going to be even more in debt once my school loans start.”

The man turned around before Manuel had even finished speaking and was asking the next person for money. He collected five dollars and asked another person.

“So, how come you don’t know how to get to your headquarters? First day?”

“No. First day at this location. I’d been working at the National Headquarters for about five years now, but there’s a greater demand in this part at the moment. But I really can’t tell you much more. I’ve already said too much.”

“I see. Well, it’s easy to get there. You just take the red line to Ogden St and then take the Green line to

Main. I’ll show you of course.”

Manuel and Julie stepped into the moving hallway, walked onto the down elevator and to the approaching subway. “Good timing, huh?” said Manuel.

Manuel weaved his body around the boarding passengers and entered the electromagnet subway car. Seeing two open seats side-by-side, he looked for Julie. She had not yet fought her way through the crowd, and the passengers were ogling the seats, hurrying toward them. Manuel raced toward the seats, sitting on one and throwing his backpack on the other, much to the dismay of the middle-aged man who sat down on it and jumped right back up, his briefcase flying into the air and his tightly-pinched tie flailing about. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see your stuff there.”

Julie had made her way over toward Manuel. “We’re in luck. Two open seats,” he said.
She sat down and they took in their surroundings, focusing on anyone and anything but each other. Observing the passenger’s idiosyncrasies, they carefully averted discovery by looking at the floor, the wall, the ceiling. One man clicked his finger nails, another bit his and spit them on the floor. An elderly woman rocked back and forth in her seat, tried to comfort herself. A young man, scarcely old enough to drink, balanced a beer on his knee and played a hand-held video game.

Julie and Manuel listened to the sounds of the subway. The electromagnetic track was silent as it whisked its passengers along, but there was the endless chatter, the words being spoken, often to one’s self and sometimes to another. To whomever they were spoken, they were spoken in English, and English alone, lest the cameras or the Bureau discover them.

It had only been thirty years since the laws had passed, and foreign languages had become a thing of the past. Left in the wake of change were foreign language teachers and international relations workers. Let alone culture, tolerance, and history. But few were conscious of their loss.

The subway slowed down. “We have to change lines at this stop,” Manuel said, and he stood up from his seat, which was filled before he had stood halfway. Several passengers gave signs of disapproval and Julie took her time exiting the cart.

“Come on,” Manuel said. He was being pushed away by the exiting passengers and he could not see Julie in the dense crowd. It cleared out a little bit as the passengers went to the connecting train, and Manuel searched some more. His frustration increased with each passing minute. Taking his hands off his hips, Manuel checked the time. Ten minutes before work.

Julie was gone and so too were any reasons to endure one of his boss’s rants. Manuel had been two minutes late last week and Mr. Gredy had made a tremendous fuss, his rhetorical question too much for Manuel to ignore: “Do you know what time it is Manuel?”

“Time for you to leave,” he countered.

“Get back here. I don’t appreciate your smug comments.”

“That’s okay, I’m used to not being appreciated.”

“Well, show up on time and maybe…”

Manuel cut him off. “I’ve been on time or early every day for the past three years, worked my ass off every minute and gone well beyond the duties of a stock-person. I’m late once and all that is erased. Where was the gratitude then? The appreciation?”

“Thanks. And get your ass here on time.”

Now the next train was approaching, and with this incident in his mind, Manuel walked briskly away, deciding to take the stairs rather than the tredporter, which would likely be congested at this time of the day. Frustrated and being pushed by passengers exiting the train, Manuel went to one of the connecting lines to the megamarket.