It was a dark and stormy night. Shit, I cant seem to write words down anymore. I may as well write the worlds
blandished short story. Ok, I know you are thinking, a dark and stormy night, well that is what I am going to send a self
addressed stamped envelope to another publisher. Surely they will reject my work, but I do believe I have a unique writing
Here I will read you sample of the rejection letter. Dear Mr. Jaystone, the story you have sent to our publishing
house is not our type of manuscript. So we are sending back your work, and maybe next time we will work together.
This is a load of shit. I will show them publishers that I can write the worlds best short story. If not,
I will shoot them. Ok I will spare their life, but what about my life? This is my lively hood. My writing is spilled forth
from my soul for others to read and enjoy. Maybe take them to a fantasy world that only I can see.
The plot to kill the publisher is circulating through my head. I sip on a southern comfort and mountain dew,
hit a joint or two and hatch my sinister plan. The more I think about it, the drunker I get. Ok here is a list of my plans.
I will go to the publishing house and kill the publisher out right. Take a Uzi and end his life in a blaze
of bullets. No, I cant do this. I really dont want to be known as a lone gunman. Of course if others were involved would I
be the only guilty? Who knows? Scrap plan 1too risky.
This one is sure to work. I will go with a syringe full of poison, subdue the publisher and get my reward.
Heres the flaw. How can I get in to see the publisher? Never thought of that before dumb ass. Scrap this fucking thing.
Ok, ok, ok, think man. How can you get away with murder? (mental note get on the internet and learn from the
best.) Murder seems to be in my grasp. Fuck the internet. I surely can figure out how to kill someone on my own. This idea
is lame, fucking lame and dubious indeed.
I need some more whiskey. Maybe it is better, less distraction from the outside world. Now I can concentrate
on my work again. Fucking publishers. Publish the shit that is a fifth generation Robert Frost copy. But not I, I prefer to
I suppose that when Im dead and gone someone will find my work and it will be published. They reap the benefits
of my hard labor. Now maybe I will have to rid the world of literary thieves. I cant murder someone, but hey the pen is mightier
than the sword, so I can write dire diatribes for people to decipher my work. Yeah, this would be great!
For all of my talk, I cant seem to put it into action. So I guess I will write another story for some publisher
to read and scoff at. Well here I go.
It was a dark and stormy night Shit I will never get published. Damn the publishers; damn them all to the
south side of Hades.