Publish or Perish
24 Dec 2019Today’s prompt: “Five ideas for a novel that you’ll never write”
“Denise despised the holidays,” you type. “Leaving her high-powered publishing job in Manhattan for her family’s home in rural Wisconsin, knowing full well she was in for unending nosy questions, for Whatever happened to that nice boy you dated back in high school? and When are you going to settle down and have enough kids to populate a small village? and endless attempts to set her up with the lantern-jawed son of one of their neighbors. Pshaw. Christmas.”
Backspace backspace backspace.
“‘Any calls, Catherine?’ Jack said as he threw open the door of the offices of Dunham and Corder, Private Investigators,” you type.
“‘Three, Mr. Dunham,’ Catherine said, picking up a small stack of notes. ‘One from the electric company. One from a collections agency. Oh, and one from a Miss Nicole Langfrey.’
“‘Langfrey. Where do I know that name from?’
“‘Probably from the society pages. She said something about an inheritance. And a series of tragic accidents, several of them involving fire and wild animals.’
“Jack’s brow furrowed.”
Backspace backspace backspace.
“The change was upon Ripley again, sinews stretching under his rapidly growing fur, which if anything only made him look even hunkier than he had in his human form. ‘No, not now,’ he thought as he stared at the pale, cold, full moon above. ‘Not now. Sherri might see.’”
Backspace backspace backspace.
“Lorrie pointed her laser pistol at D’ar’qua and blew a strand of blond hair out of her eye. D’ar’qua pointed his laser pistol back at Lorrie, his antennae twitching. All the while, the ship’s A.I. kept beeping, ‘Two minutes to self-destruct.’”
Backspace backspace backspace.
“Archibald Woodruff rode his dragon straight through the saloon doors. The barkeep barely blinked as he wiped a glass with a dirty-looking towel and uncorked a bottle of whiskey.”
Backspace backspace backspace.
You close the laptop. “It’s no good!” you shout. “I couldn’t write the great American novel if my life depended on it!”
“Too bad it does,” a voice behind you says, punctuated by the sound of the hammer on a revolver being cocked.