Page 1 of The Authenticity Clause
Chapter 1: The Art of Creative Non-Fiction
Leo Hayes was a firm believer that chaos was just creativity in its natural, untamed state. His apartment was a testament to this philosophy. Half-finished canvases leaned against walls like tipsy party guests, a constellation of paint splatters decorated the hardwood floors, and three separate coffee mugs, each in a different stage of fossilization, formed a sacred triangle around his laptop. It was, in his opinion, a perfectly organized ecosystem of inspiration.
His landlord, Mr. Henderson, did not share this artistic vision.
The evidence was stuck to the fridge with a passive-aggressive smiley-face magnet: a notice printed on paper the color of impending doom. The words PAST DUE were underlined twice in a furious red ink that seemed to personally violate the cheerful vibe of the kitchen. It had been there for three days, radiating a low-level hum of anxiety that was starting to interfere with Leo’s ability to appreciate the morning light filtering through his paint-smudged windows.
Right,he thought, skillfully ignoring the notice to grab the last dregs of orange juice from the carton.New plan. Becomea world-famous artist before the first of the month. Totally doable.
The problem with his plans was that they often involved a level of magical thinking that the universe consistently failed to endorse. He was a good artist, maybe even a great one on a good day, but the galleries of Starling Grove weren't exactly beating down his door. His income was less of a steady stream and more of a series of unpredictable droughts punctuated by the occasional flash flood when a commission came through. Currently, he was deep in drought territory.
His phone buzzed on the counter, vibrating against an empty tube of cadmium yellow. The screen lit up with a picture of his mom, smiling brightly. He loved his mom. He also knew this call would, in some way, involve the phrase "stable career path."
He took a deep breath and swiped to answer. "Hey, Mom. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Leo, darling! I was just calling to see how you are. Are you eating? You sound like you’re not eating."
"I am actively drinking the ghost of an orange," Leo said, tilting the carton back until the last drop hit his tongue. "So, yes. Peak nutrition."
"That’s not what I mean and you know it," she said, her voice warm but edged with the familiar steel of maternal concern. "How’s the… art going?"
The slight pause before ‘art’ was everything. It was a pause filled with love, but also with visions of 401(k)s, dental plans, and a son who didn’t describe his financial situation as "artistically fluid."
"It's great," Leo lied, his eyes drifting back to the red-inked glare from the fridge. "On the verge of a major breakthrough.I’m exploring the transient nature of… geometric shapes. Very in right now."
"That’s wonderful, sweetie. Your cousin, Mark—you remember Mark, from accounting?—he just got another promotion. They gave him a corner office. Can you imagine?"
Leo could, in fact, imagine it. He imagined it was beige. He imagined the art on the walls was chosen by a committee. "Wow. That’s… numerically thrilling for him."
"I just worry, Leo. We just want you to be secure. To have something to fall back on."
"I have a very comfortable couch to fall back on," he quipped. "And several large piles of laundry. The safety net is robust."
The call ended as it always did, with mutual "I love yous" and Leo feeling a familiar hollowness in his chest. His mom’s worry wasn’t an attack; it was a symptom of his own deep-seated fear. The fear that he was, at twenty-six, a charming disappointment. A creative dead-end.
The hollow feeling, combined with the glare of the rent notice, was a powerful motivator. He slumped into his desk chair, the wheels protesting under his weight, and opened his laptop. The screen flickered to life, illuminating a half-finished digital painting of a fox in a spacesuit. He sighed, minimizing the masterpiece, and opened a new tab.
Job Search. Starling Grove.
The results were a graveyard of inspiration.'Data Entry Specialist.' 'Logistics Coordinator.' 'Junior Account Manager.'The words themselves seemed gray, devoid of life. He scrolled for what felt like an eternity, his soul slowly shriveling with each listing that demanded "proficiency in Microsoft Excel" and "a passion for synergy."
I have a passion for not being evicted,he thought.Does that count?
And then he saw it.
Vance & Sterling Creative. Digital Experience Designer.
The name alone sounded expensive, like a law firm from a TV show where everyone had great hair and betrayed each other in glass-walled offices. The description was a masterclass in corporate jargon. It talked about "disrupting paradigms," "crafting bespoke digital narratives," and "leveraging brand synergy in a holistic ecosystem." It was complete, utter nonsense. Leo loved it.
He clicked the link. The company’s website was a monument to minimalism. Stark white backgrounds, sharp black lines, a severe, geometric logo that looked like it would cut you if you touched it. There wasn't a single stray pixel, not a hint of color beyond the grayscale spectrum. It was the aesthetic opposite of his entire existence.
He scrolled down to the job requirements.
5+ years experience in UX/UI design and digital strategy.
