A Writer writes

Brent Madison is the future of literature. This, according to the New York Times blurb reproduced on the back of the forth printing of his first novel "The Color of Hatred." That was twelve years ago and the world awaits an answer.

Brent looked up from his computer screen to find the sun setting once again.  This continues to be a daily ritual, yet, he is always surprised.  The glowing white computer screen stares back as a constant, versus the waning purple and melon sky, as it etches long warbling shadows across his small cluttered desk.

He slowly stands and stretches, then crosses the small room toward the overhead light switch, side stepping stacked islands of magazines and mail.  On the return trip, he collects a few chinese food containers scattered about, but his feeble hook shots leaves them nearer to the trash can, albeit still on the floor.

"Brent Madison is the future of literature."  This, according to the New York Times blurb, reproduced on the back cover of the forth printing of his debut novel, "The Color of Hatred."  That was twelve years ago, and the world awaits an answer. 

Staring hard at the quote on the copy he had just rescued from the out-going newspaper pile, pausing to where he had years ago crossed out "future" and penned "fluke" above it, along with the obligatory edit symbol.  He plucked a pen from behind his ear, and updated the edit with the word "faker." 

"Getting closer." he mumbled to himself before replacing the book back onto the newspaper pile.

But the fact remained, that the future of literature barely knew the future of supper. Brent Madison was a spent man, chasing words on the lam, cornering magical ideas, to have them exit through a trap door,  as devoid of ideas as he was clean socks.  And the fact that these colorful metaphors came out of his mouth, to no one in particular, and in third person narrative ... well frankly, it scared him.

The End

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