“Garbage,” Professor Galbraith shouted, throwing my manuscript down, “utter rubbish.”
It had been my best work ever; I doubted I’d do better.
So I dropped out of college, moved away, and never wrote another sentence. The word was I’d died; which I had, in a way.
And years later I read my own work, now a prize-winning novel, published under his name.
He was old when I found him, but not so old that he was willing to die.
“You can’t get away with murder,” he gasped.
“You did,” I said, “and anyway, who cares? The word is I’m dead anyway.”
I thought it was time I offed someone; must be weeks now. The picture this week is one of mine, taken on the Rhone in September whilst moored on a ‘ponton d’attente’ waiting for the lock to be set in our favour. Depressing isn’t it? Somebody should care… Thanks to Rochelle for hosting another edition of Friday Fictioneers. Where would we be without her?