Strange Editing by Dan Provost
Unfinished novels, novellas, and poems clutter the floor of the writer’s apartment.
Slowly, he gets out of bed, yawns, scratches his balls, and squints to look at the 45-cent alarm clock he bought at the thrift store,
Half past three or six o’clock… What’s the difference.
Picking up a piece of discarded literature, one of many writings that are bantered about the soiled bedroom, he reads a tale of woe in the third person-some guy who observes life’s action’s and reactions a little differently from the rest of society.
He laughs out loud and scratches his nads again…
“Another testament of drunken falsehoods,” he claims to an audience of none-“nobody cares.”
He cranks out another quick verse and throws it to the ground-then picks up a dirty manuscript titled “Might is Right”
He reads the first two pages, the laughs again.
“Ah, it’s already been done before.” He says while searching for a pair of pants.
“Maybe if I kill myself-this shit will finally sell.”
He ponders for a minute while staring at a knife that is stranded in the sink with other filthy forks and spoons… all soaking in water infested with peanut butter and jelly scum.
He looks left at the stained fridge… old Amana with the pull-out handle…
Opens it, grabs a beer then sits down among his collection of other disowned written escapes… “Na,” he quietly mutters to himself. “Better to die an honorable death.”