Fiction
One I am thirty-nine years old and my mother just died. At last, my life can begin. I use the money left to me in the will to self-publish a book of essays and take them round to the shops that sell books. I offer, in my magnanimous way, to give it to them for f ree, so all it will cost them is a bit of shelf space, but even that is too much for them to give up. They all say no to me. So I publish it on the web, for anyone to see or read or copy or plagiarize, and that earns me some e-mails, such as: You are to die and burn hell [sic]. You are fucked. You should die. Fuck you. Or this: Who told you you could write? My ten year old got an A+ on a story about his dog. That’s real writing. I’d rather read the story about his dog my ten year old wrote. Or this: Increase your pen1s 3x guaranteed. It doesn’t matter. I have killed the only woman I have ever loved.
