Twelfth rejection. This was my twelfth freaking rejection. The same story had been rejected twelve times. They said, "It's not original." or, "The genre fits comedy better than horror." What stupid gits! Can't they see scary when it stares them in the face?! What’s scarier than the a girl been stalked by her dead lover? My hind that's not original! It's as original as an ....original thing!!! And I wasn't about to go begging and kissing a fat mans arse just to get it published. Tried that once already, landed up not only losing my money, but my dignity too. Maybe I should write about leprechauns and gnomes, or old Irish folk tales. That authentic enough for those slosh buckets? Damn cud-chewing cows! I'll be the best damn Irish author they've ever seen, then they’ll all come kissing my foot fungus!
I needed a cold beer. I needed to move. I'd go somewhere with a better view, and find some blooming inspiration. It’s so nice to be able to carry your house with you. A caravan...I love my brother. What an idea. To be free to go where I please.
I looked at the pile of bills on my table. “Overdue, overdue” that’s all they said. Can they not give a man a break? I put them out of my mind, and sat with my beer. A sudden click caught my attention. Dang it! The generator was out of fuel. I had no money to pay for more. Bloody hell. I better move someplace cool. This stinking heat would fry my cheeks.
I sat down, took a sip of the can of beer. Damn it, it was as hot as hell. Today was a bad day. Where were the bloody leprechauns when you needed them, eh? A sharp rap on the door drew my attention.
"Nobody home!" I yelled. The rapping continued. Crap. Persistent little....!! "Stop that damn racket! I’m coming, I’m coming!" I yelled. It didn't stop till I opened the door. I don't get how the guy disappeared so fast, but he had left behind a nice little brown wrapped present. Nice, a package. Hope it’s fuel for my generator, but you know what they say, “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts”. God knows, it could be a time bomb stuck in there. Still, if they wanted to blow my brain to pieces, there would have been easier methods. For example, lock this caravan up tight. I’d boil my freaking skin off.
I tore open the wrapping, and through it on the floor with the rest of my garbage. These were obviously not Greeks, oh no. These were good people, very good people, cause this, this was no bomb alright; this was a pen, an expensive pen by the looks of it. It's green shades intertwined with a silver rope. Real beauty . "Watollia", what an expensive sounding name. I rolled it along my fingers, picked out a few loose sheets and began to write. My hands needed a good work out. This pen made my hand want to write. Na, I don't feel like horror today, how about a good little fantasy? I sat back, and let my fingers do the rest-
The Queen of Watollia, was very nervous. The King and his men had travelled far, to kill the dreaded Dragon that was haunting there kingdom, and he had not returned yet. Two weeks it had been and yet there was no word from him.
She looked out of her window, staring at the land before her. Watollia certainly was magnificent.........