Welcome, you have reached the home—still, barely—of Morgan Delaney, writer of dark, strange and fantastic fiction.
He is fading fast, but reading the following piece of flash fiction may keep him going a little longer.
Read on!
“Listen!” said the author. The word sliced through the pitch black of the room we all sat in.
Through the walls came the sound of someone asking for a book. It was the wrong book, for the author gave a sob as the cash register rang and footsteps receded.
I was more worried that I didn’t know if I was sitting in the dark, because I didn’t have hands to check whether my eyes were open or closed.
I hadn’t been there long, and the author was the only one who would talk to me, though lots of other people were close by, muttering to themselves or each other.
“Statistically,” he said after a pause. “Statistically, someone has to order one of my books eventually. I wrote more than a dozen, so at some point… Don’t worry!” He said that last bit as if to soothe me.
He had already explained his theory that this was Purgatory. All it would take was one reader ordering one dead author’s book for that author to get into heaven. The word “statistically” seemed to comfort him, though I was sure his reasoning was faulty.
“But how many books did you sell? When you are alive?” I hated having to ask the question. Thinking about death gave me a queasy feeling where my stomach used to be, though I was sure that I was still alive: I had merely bumped my head while gardening.
“Ah!” he said mysteriously, as if I could never hope to understand his sales, not if I stayed in Author Purgatory for eternity. I decided it meant he hadn’t sold many.
Some of the other authors must have been listening, for they sniffed at my question, as if to say, “you can’t measure literature by sales!”
I had put together a booklet of dreadful poems while at school, which is presumably why I was here. I would never have called myself as an author, though, and certainly couldn’t expect to hear anyone request a copy of… what had it been called? Paper Blooms? Something like that.
If I had thought about it, I might have assumed that being trapped with serious authors for eternity would at least be interesting. All these great minds. Deep thinkers, interested in exploring the human condition and trained in expressing their thoughts with precision and grace. But the conversation always returned to sales.
“If I’d known, I would have bought one of your books. Before I—“
“Listen!” said the author. The bell tinkled through the walls and footsteps made their way to the counter next door to make their next request.
I hope you enjoyed that?
If not, perhaps you’ll enjoy this: it’s an old video, but new to me, and the funniest thing I’ve seen all week.
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