Lounging languorously in regal recline, the foxy feline felt warmly at home on her finely woven silk Persian rug.
“The cat sat on the mat will do fine,” the editor said.
“Consumptive first person second cousin propositions third tense removed,” or something like that.
Up yours, thought I, clicking off the page.
I was once a good writer, but desperation breeds contempt. I wanted a story, I needed one bad. I went cruising for a fix.
I came to a door marked ‘Erotica’. There stood a beautiful word. “Enticing,” her nametag said.
“Looking for flash, John?” she purred.
She knew my name. I entered.
The steamy room was full of passion. Sexy stories, dressed seductively, full voluptuous breasts heaved with desire, eyes flashing wildly.
Countess sat dreaming of sausages and semen. Dominatrix in tight latex winked and cracked her whip. Frustrated Housewife scanned lists of synonyms for pussy and penis, while blunt four-lettered expletives lay scattered around.
I stood like a sailor with a pocket full of battleships, when a word I’d not seen before; a pretty little noun, caught my eye.
She noticed my interest and sashayed over, slipped her U under my shirt, wrapped Y around my leg and stuck a C in my ear.
“I’m just looking,” I clumsily said.
“Then you better look elsewhere, but it’ll still cost you 200 words.”
I ran away in panic, slipped on lazy Q who’d lost her U, bumped into PH mistaking it for F; trying to find my way out.
“Over here,” called Cutely. “I’m all alone.”
No wonder, with a name like that. “I’m looking for a word more like Virtuous,” I cried
“Try Historical Romance,” shouted Masturbate. “Here I’ll give you a hand.”
“No, I’ll manage fine.”
“Wait, I’ll come with you,” said Heathcliff, pushing his way through some naughty verbs. “I don’t belong in here either.”
I continued my search, with Heathcliff at my side. He talked of his world long gone; the days when he lived in Contemporary Fiction. Of shipwrecks and heroes, widows and orphans cast adrift upon murderous seas and wind blasted moors.
“True heroines should be imprisoned in daunting castles, with secrets shrouded by blinding mists set in a language full of dark forebodings,” he said.
We passed many doors: Futuristic, Paranormal, Fantasy; rooms filled with enthusiasm and wild imaginings, until we came to the one marked H/R. I looked in, but wasn’t quite sure; Frock coats, top hats and crinolines?
Then I saw her, a nice looking novella, sitting alone on the stairs.
“You look sad,” I said.
She looked up. “No one wants you when you’re down to half price, with one day left ‘til you’re sent to be pulped. I had only one review, and was found seriously lacking.”
“Really?” I said. “Let’s have a look.”
I lifted her skirts. The plot looked quite reasonable, ending with nice hooked feet. Waist, a bit stodgy, could lose a word or two. Bust, a bit flat for my taste. I got to her head and found the problem: Chock full of when and where, but no who, what or why.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“You could well fit my needs,” I replied.
“Aren’t you worried about plagiarism?”
“Don’t worry. When I’ve finished, even your own author won’t recognise you.”
I diddled and twiddled, pulling this way and that. I plucked the MC, reset the tense, decoked POV, finally changing all the he’s for I am. Around dawn, ‘Rose’ was finished.
To hell with the good writer, I was mean, I was bad, but at least I had something worthy of publication on amazon.com