The Master

You have probably never heard of Martin Blanc, however you almost certainly know his work. He’s written multiple bestsellers, a few of which have even been made into movies. He’s done mysteries, romance, fantasy, thrillers, horror, smut… you name it, he’s written it.

His name isn’t on a single book, though. He’s a ghost writer, and specifically one who has made a name for himself by filling in when famous authors flake out.

Sometimes it’s an epic fantasy where the author got paralyzed by his success and found they couldn’t write for fear of fan backlash. Perhaps it’s a mystery where after two dozen books, the original author is sick of their own protagonist. Maybe a writer is having private struggles with their health or family and needs to get another book out to keep up appearances. Whatever the situation, Martin is known to those in the know as someone who can mimic another writer, and get the job done.

Sure, other people claim his work as their own, but that suits him just fine. He gets a tidy sum for both his work and his silence, and he doesn’t get ruined by the fame and attention. He’s seen what that does to people.

He cultivates that invisibility in his appearance as well. Tall, but rarely the tallest in a room. Fit enough that no one would comment on his weight or health, but not enough to turn heads. Department store wardrobe, almost stylish hair, and round glasses—though he only really needs them for reading. He has the look of a background character in a movie.

“What do you mean, you can’t come?” he shouts into his phone, though he quickly lowers his voice and waves an apology to the fellow travellers around him. “It’s a little late notice don’t you think?”

“You think you’re upset,” the man on the other end of the line says. “I’m the one stuck in Chicago in February while you’re on a beach. I was halfway to the airport when I got the call. This is a career-making opportunity, man. I can’t let it go.”

“Dammit, Frank,” Martin grumbled. “Now I have to be happy for you. I was all ready to get angry. Well, I guess I’ll get more work done if I go by myself.”

“Don’t you fucking dare, man,” Frank said loudly enough for most of the airport to hear through the phone. “You are on vacation. If I find out you spent the whole time in your room, typing some coked-out blowhard’s novel for him, I will burn your house down. Have some fun, go outside, maybe find a girl to kiss. Do you remember what one of those looks like?”

There is nothing so biting as a fair critique. Writers, as a group, aren’t the most outgoing people. As a ghost writer, Martin is even worse. When the pandemic hit, he barely noticed. His gym and supermarket closed, so he started ordering groceries and hired a personal trainer, but other than that, everything continued as normal. He read, wrote, played video games, jogged, and threw stuffed mice for his cat. The closest thing he had to a girlfriend was a local barista who could remember his name and drink order.

“Alright, I’ll try,” Martin conceded. “I gotta go, their starting to board.”

“Hello grand prize winners,” Titania, dressed in a red and black stewardess uniform announced over the PA system. “If you could all follow me out to our private jet we can get you boarded, settled, and have a drink in your hand before you known it. It’s a long way to Tahiti, so we want you as comfortable as possible.”

It was a small group, only a half dozen couples, and Martin. They had won the “executive package” tickets which included a private flight, unlimited spending at resort shops, and an upgrade to the “Master Suite” rooms. It was a vacation none of them could afford in their lifetime.

The pair beside him as they walked along the boarding ramp were so obviously in love as to be nauseating. “Hello,” said the young woman, a beaming blonde. “Jenn Clark, and this is my husband, Jeff Clark. We just got married.”

That was obvious. Nobody else with wedding bands was that eager to touch each other. “Can you believe that my aunt gave us her winning tickets for our honeymoon. This is incredible. We’ve always had roommates; this is our first trip just the two of us. Oh, is that your room number, I think we’re right next door.” She pointed to the ticked in his hand with flight and hotel details. “I think we’re neighbors. I just want to say, if we’re too loud, you let us know.”

Martin stiffened slightly in several ways at the thought of the beautiful young pair loudly consummating their matrimony in the next room. “I’m sure it will be fine. And congratulations. Martin, by the way.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Martin,” Jeff shook his hand firmly. “I hope you have a great trip. I know we will.”

Martin settled in for a long flight, carry-on in the empty seat beside him, champaign in hand.

Hours later, while fast asleep over the pacific, he totally missed the subtle shift as the whole plane passed out of his reality into the magical world of the Harem Hotel.