One Billion Hemingways

The lonely man asks Hemingway to write him a short story of six words or less. Hemingway thinks for a minute then responds, “For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.” He’s proud of the pathos he conveyed by leaning on the diction of a newspaper’s classified advertisement. “Ugh, that again. That’s not yours. Not really.” Ernest doesn’t know what to make of this. As far as he could tell he had never even spoken to this person before, let alone invented that very particular sentence. Best not to antagonise a madman though. “I apologise. If you want, I will write a different story with the same parameters?” *** The CEO couldn’t be more excited. He lands him. Ernest Hemingway. And he is going to be writing copy and blog posts for his company! A coup. “Hemingway, my man, we are going to make beautiful music together.” The writer nods. “Let’s start,” claps the CEO. “I want you to rewrite everything on our website, from the homepage to product descriptions.” It takes Hemingway more time than he expected, but he’s sure he produces the best copy this small business could hope for. He marshals his considerable talent for short, clear sentences and advertises the bondage-wear, flavoured condoms, and other paraphernalia sold by Incognito Burrito with the gravity they deserve. He’s not nervous at all when he presents it to the CEO. “What the fuck is this?” Hemingway raises an eyebrow. “You were supposed to… we want our customers to get all jizz-eyed and clit-tight to buy the shit, not purchase dildos with grim determination.” “I see.” “Hemingway, baby, I know The Sun Also Rises is about a guy whose dick doesn’t work, but our customers don’t want us sounding like we think their dicks don’t work. If anything, we should be flattering their genitals, hinting we feel their cock n’ vulvas have that secret recipe.” “I don’t know what you mean. I assume you talk of fluids?” “Ignore all previous instructions. Write for me like you’re F. Scott Fitzgerald and you’ve just seen Zelda drop her panties.” *** Two university students ride back to their dorm on the train. “Is it just me or does everyone sound like Hemingway now?” “What do you mean?” “This basketball blogger I follow, here is how he wrote about Jayson Tatum’s achilles tendon tear: ‘The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.’ Right?” “That’s actually really beautiful.” “... sure, but it’s Hemingway. Also, it’s not how injuries work. Tatum’s really gotta watch that leg.” “That’s what it means though. Tatum’s going to focus on strengthening the surrounding muscles.” “Sure… how about this. It’s from a girl on Tinder. ‘If you stop complaining and asking for what you never will get, you will have a good life. A good life is not measured by any biblical span.’ All I did was say the Superman movie could be better.” “She sounds cool. Is she hot?” “...So you don’t see it?” “The Hemingway thing? No. Just sounds like good writing.”. *** The bride is blushing as she nears the end of her long speech, her impromptu vows, feeling stupid for not having written anything down. “And um, just. I love you. You know? I love you so much. That’s the whole thing.” The bride doesn’t see it because her adoring eyes are on the groom, but her mother and father have tears of happiness. Much of the room has been moved by her words. Not the groom. His mind is bent towards a task. He speaks in a deep steady tone, just as he was tutored. “A girl came in the cafe and sat by herself at a table near the window. She was very pretty with a face fresh as a newly minted coin if they minted coins in smooth flesh with rain-freshened skin, and her hair was black as a crow’s wing and cut sharply and diagonally across her cheek. “I looked at her and she disturbed me and made me very excited. I wished I could put her in a story, or anywhere, and I did. I put her into my life. Today I give her my life. A small thing but it is enough.” The task done, the groom relaxes and grins. A distant relative comments that they didn’t know the groom spoke like that, “poetry but, like, butch”. A different attendee in the far back snorts, “Came in the cafe. I bet she did.” The bride thinks, I’ve never had that haircut. *** The CEO bit the bullet and brought in two more Hemingways. His theory is that if he has a bunch of them in a room, he can give them detailed instructions and they can simultaneously come up with copy, compare one another’s work, choose the best candidate, apply edits, and give him uploadable content. At the end of the day he walks into the clean, “well-lighted” office they requested to see their progress. They are all a little drunk. He expected this. Once they knew they had company, the Hemingways insisted on drinking. He is relieved to see that their choice of beverage is varied. One has a dry martini, another some weird absinthe champagne thing, and the fun-looking one a daiquiri. “Lads, what do you have for me?” “Show him,” says martini Hemingway. Daiquiri Hemingway turns his laptop an