Right Track (Not my best, but I'm trying!)
Title: Right Track
Fandom: Secret Window
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst
Length: 263 words
Forhannahrorlove by request!
Mort put the corn he had been chewing on back onto the plate in front of him.
"Mail," he muttered softly. He had been awaiting some sort of response from EQMM for the past week, and was tired of waiting. The story was one of his better ones, he thought. "Draining" was about a poor writer who had decided it was his turn to get published. The whole thing encompassed his search for the head of a publishing company. The twist of course, was the ending.
The man kills the CEO and takes his place seamlessly.
As he trumbled along the rough walk of his pseudo-driveway, he considered the story. He really had liked it. The character had reminded him of himself in many ways.
Opening the mailbox, he actually smiled--and ended up cutting his lip on his braces--when he saw the white envelope. Sliding a finger along the top of it, Mort ripped it open. he read the letter softly to himself.
"Dear sir,
"We are pleased to inform you... good good... yes, but what about--oh here." Mort paused, his eyes narrowing, as though squinting to read. "$150? This needs to be straightened out." Tracing down the letter with a finger, he looked for the name he wanted. "Here we go."
Placing the envelope to his chest, he mused to himself, "Whoever said art imitates life was on the right track." Returning to the house, he picked up the Ruger .22 that he had been carrying lately and slid into his car, headed for 475 Park Avenue South in New York City.
Fandom: Secret Window
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Angst
Length: 263 words
Forhannahrorlove by request!
Mort put the corn he had been chewing on back onto the plate in front of him.
"Mail," he muttered softly. He had been awaiting some sort of response from EQMM for the past week, and was tired of waiting. The story was one of his better ones, he thought. "Draining" was about a poor writer who had decided it was his turn to get published. The whole thing encompassed his search for the head of a publishing company. The twist of course, was the ending.
The man kills the CEO and takes his place seamlessly.
As he trumbled along the rough walk of his pseudo-driveway, he considered the story. He really had liked it. The character had reminded him of himself in many ways.
Opening the mailbox, he actually smiled--and ended up cutting his lip on his braces--when he saw the white envelope. Sliding a finger along the top of it, Mort ripped it open. he read the letter softly to himself.
"Dear sir,
"We are pleased to inform you... good good... yes, but what about--oh here." Mort paused, his eyes narrowing, as though squinting to read. "$150? This needs to be straightened out." Tracing down the letter with a finger, he looked for the name he wanted. "Here we go."
Placing the envelope to his chest, he mused to himself, "Whoever said art imitates life was on the right track." Returning to the house, he picked up the Ruger .22 that he had been carrying lately and slid into his car, headed for 475 Park Avenue South in New York City.