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Chapter 3: The Submission
Alex Walker stared at the large manila envelope in his hands. He ran his thumb over the seal twice, making absolutely sure the glue had set.
It was heavy. Inside were the original manuscripts for the first three chapters of Silver Spoon. Sixty-two pages of hand-drawn art, sandwiched between two thick pieces of cardboard to prevent even the slightest crease during transit.
He had written the address in bold, black marker:
To: Submission Dept.
NEXTGEN MANGA MONTHLY
1400 State Street, Suite 500
His handwriting was neat, almost mechanical. He had triple-checked the zip code. This wasn't just a package; it was a life raft.
"How long will it take to get there?"
"Regular mail? Three to five days. Priority with tracking is faster, but it'll cost you. I'd recommend tracking. You don't want this getting lost in a bin somewhere."
The postmaster, a balding man named Mr. Henderson who had run the Oak Creek General Store & Post Office since before Alex was born, slid a form across the counter.
"Don't fold the sheets," Henderson added, eyeing the size of the package. "And did you include a self-addressed stamped envelope? If they reject it, that's how they send it back. Otherwise, it goes in the trash."
"I got it covered," Alex said, purchasing two extra return envelopes and a book of stamps.
Mr. Henderson watched him count out the cash—money Alex had scraped together from an allowance that hadn't been adjusted for inflation since 1995.
"Don't get your hopes up too high, son," the old man said, his tone kind but weary. "I hear those big city publishers get mailbags full of comics every single day. Most of 'em never even get opened."
"I know," Alex replied, his voice steady.
"As long as you know." Henderson stamped the receipt.
Alex stood by the glass counter, listening to the rhythmic thump-thump of the date stamper. The wall behind the counter was plastered with faded notices and a 'Wanted' poster for a man who had allegedly stolen a tractor three counties over.
"Priority Mail," Alex confirmed.
"It's over thirteen ounces," Henderson grunted, placing it on the scale. "Has to go as a parcel. What's in it?"
"Manuscripts. Drawings."
"Hmph." Henderson didn't pry further. He tapped away on the beige keypad of the register. "That'll be eight dollars and forty cents. Fill out the sender info here."
Alex took the pen.
Sender: Alex Walker.
Address: Oak Creek Ranch, Box 114.
Phone: He left it blank. The barn didn't have an extension, and he wasn't about to give the house number yet.
He wrote slowly. In his past life, submitting a portfolio was a ritual. You treated it with the same gravity as a tax return or a marriage license.
"Here's your tracking number." Henderson tore off the slip and handed it over. "Keep it safe. Should hit the city distribution center in three days."
Alex took the receipt. It was just a thin strip of thermal paper, but it felt solid in his hand. He folded it carefully and tucked it into the innermost pocket of his wallet.
Stepping out of the post office, the morning sun hit him full in the face. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, patting his pocket. The receipt was there. The manuscript was gone.
It was out of his hands now.
Now, he waited. He had to wait for that envelope to travel hundreds of miles to a steel-and-glass building he had never seen. He had to wait for some overworked intern to pull it out of a canvas sack, slice it open, and look at the first page.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the crisp country air, and headed toward the magazine rack at the front of the store.
He wasn't here to buy art supplies this time. He was here to do "market research."
The wire rack was spun halfway around, displaying the colorful, chaotic covers of the current bestsellers. Alex didn't browse randomly. He went straight to the clerk.
"Which one is the latest issue of NextGen?"
"Top shelf, left side," the clerk muttered, not looking up from his crossword puzzle.
Alex pulled it down. The cover featured a muscle-bound swordsman screaming at a dragon, surrounded by an excessive amount of explosion effects. He flipped to the Table of Contents and found the "Coming Next Month" section.
It listed the upcoming serialized titles:
Mecha Storm: Rise of the Machines
Magic Academy Romance
Fist of the Warlord
Below each title was a tagline that screamed mediocrity: "Hot-blooded Action!", "Schoolyard Love!", " The Ultimate Battle Begins!"
He closed the magazine and slid it back onto the rack.
Nearby, a kid—maybe twelve years old—was sitting cross-legged on the floor, engrossed in a copy of Captain Strong. He was turning the pages so fast the paper ripped slightly.
"Whoa," the kid whispered to his friend. "He learned a new Super Beam! That's so cool!"
Alex watched them for a moment. It was a simple, pure joy. The bar was so low that even a palette-swapped laser beam was enough to excite the audience.
Alex walked out of the store, a faint smile playing on his lips. Just you wait, he thought. You have no idea what's coming.
The next three days were a study in disciplined routine.
Alex woke up at 5:00 AM sharp. He helped his father, John, milk the cows and toss hay for the horses. The physical labor was grounding; the smell of the animals and the ache in his muscles reminded him of the reality he was trying to capture on paper.
After breakfast, he went to his room to draw Chapter 4 of Silver Spoon.
Lunch at noon.
Back to drawing until dinner.
After dinner, he'd help his mother, Sarah, with canning vegetables or mending clothes, then back to the desk until midnight.
He didn't run to the post office to check the tracking every day. There was no point. He knew the system. "Delivered" just meant it was in the building; it didn't mean it had been read.
He forced himself not to dwell on it. Dwelling burned mental energy he needed for the page. In his previous life, he had learned the hard way: Once you ship it, forget it. Focus on the next one.
Chapter 4 was progressing well. The storyboard was done, and he was in the inking phase. The focus of this chapter was the pigs. He wanted to capture the filth, the smell, and the strange, chaotic vitality of a pig pen.
But when he reached page eight, he hit a wall.
The scene required Yugo Hachiken, the protagonist, to enter the pig pen for the first time. Alex had initially planned a long, panning shot—moving from the clean hallway into the muck to show Hachiken's disgust.
He stared at the draft.
It was flat. It was boring. It lacked impact.
He spun his pencil around his fingers, a nervous tic from his old life.
How do I show overwhelming intimidation from... pigs?
Then, a memory flashed in his mind. Slam Dunk. Takehiko Inoue.
The scene where Hanamichi Sakuragi steps onto the court for his first real game. Inoue used three rapid-fire close-up panels: The squeak of the sneakers, the sharp intake of breath, the dilation of the pupils. All accompanied by sound effects that grew physically larger on the page.
That's it. Cinematic pacing.
Alex ripped the page off his drawing board and crumpled it up. He started over.
Panel 1: Extreme close-up. Hachiken's hand gripping the wooden frame of the pen door. His knuckles are white.
Panel 2: Side profile close-up. Sweat beading on his temple. His nose twitches as the smell hits him.
Panel 3: POV shot from the floor, looking up. The interior of the pen is a towering, dark, chaotic mess of mud and snouts.
Panel 4: Wide shot. Hachiken stands small and silhouetted in the doorway, dwarfed by the sheer mass of the pigs staring back at him.
Alex sat back and looked at the rough pencils.
Yes. That was it. The tension, the sensory overload, the feeling of being out of one's element.
He set the pencil down and rotated his wrist. Outside, the sky was turning purple. Dinner time.
(To be Continued)
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