Dear Kenneth Mulvey,
You are the fiction editor. I am the fiction writer. At least that was the plan when they drew it up. I'm afraid things may have been mixed up. We are like great warriors ready to do battle. I've forgotten to change the chess pieces in months. Both sides are dirty brown. I'll let you play from the south; I'm from the north anyway. Unless, you prefer the north, then everything changes again. If only I had cleaned the pawns and their friends then we could have a fair game. I'm afraid I am going to have to cheat now. When you look away-I will leave my sink overflowing to draw your attention-I will take over all the pieces. "The brown pieces are mine," I will say when you turn back to ask me about the river flowing in my kitchen. The north is victorious again. The United States is saved. I grew up with Joshua Chamberlain's babies. They use to throw apples at me from the tops of hills. I didn't dare climb the hills after them because I knew they were hiding bayonets in the high grass. I ran away from those hills. I collected a few crushed apples as I ran. I ate the apples as I ran. Mother said I'd have nightmares. "You can't eat apples before bedtime." I took a nap under a tree to prove mother wrong. As I lay down a squirrel or maybe a little bird perched on my nose. My arms were already asleep and I couldn't brush them away. It was clear that I'd never fall asleep with such critters seated on my nostrils. I tried sneezing and was surprised to sneeze myself awake. There were no nightmares, but it had grown dark and I was still a young child then who was too afraid to play with the children of a Civil War hero. Yes, I was afraid and that's why I return to you Kenneth Mulvey and our plans. It's apparent that I've messed the majority of them up. I have already made you my enemy and I have stolen all your chess pieces without placing you in check. There's a blank piece of paper next to me Kenneth Mulvey. I doubt you see it. I think I lied to you again Kenneth. I am no good at this relationship. The paper exists-it's there, I touch it, and it laughs at me when the wind blows-but the paper isn't blank like I previously thought. It has spots, small black spots. It's fleas. I'm contaminated. We will never meet now. I am diseased. I have left this world. Shut me in the closet and quarantine me. But the fleas don't jump. I am deaf to their squeaks. My paper isn't affected. Kenneth our friendship is saved. The paper is not covered with fleas, but pepper. I am no longer sickly and weak, but strong and no longer hungry. Kenneth, in the name of our new acquaintance I will taste this peppered paper. I've eaten dirt. Fleas (even if dead) and pepper does not taste like dirt, but a clean piece of paper sits before me. I've eaten this dirt to show you my integrity. I told you lies, but I took action to make them truths. Yes, a blank piece of paper sits before me.
I apologize for destroying the relationship between a fiction editor and a fiction writer.
Sincerely,
Mark Baumer
P.S. I've attached the short story "Hunting Buddies" for thieves jargon.
P.P.S. I realize I have not included an author bio. My author bio is as follows: Mark Baumer once stole a bike, but the bike chain broke on this bike while riding in a neighborhood so he traded it in for a bike that was resting on a porch in that neighborhood. Mark soon learned he wasn't very good at riding bikes when he popped three tires in the span of a week and a half. He chained the bike with a flat back tire to a street sign. Three days later when Mark returned to the bike he found someone had stolen the front tire. Mark cursed the heavens for making such a beautiful world.
You are the fiction editor. I am the fiction writer. At least that was the plan when they drew it up. I'm afraid things may have been mixed up. We are like great warriors ready to do battle. I've forgotten to change the chess pieces in months. Both sides are dirty brown. I'll let you play from the south; I'm from the north anyway. Unless, you prefer the north, then everything changes again. If only I had cleaned the pawns and their friends then we could have a fair game. I'm afraid I am going to have to cheat now. When you look away-I will leave my sink overflowing to draw your attention-I will take over all the pieces. "The brown pieces are mine," I will say when you turn back to ask me about the river flowing in my kitchen. The north is victorious again. The United States is saved. I grew up with Joshua Chamberlain's babies. They use to throw apples at me from the tops of hills. I didn't dare climb the hills after them because I knew they were hiding bayonets in the high grass. I ran away from those hills. I collected a few crushed apples as I ran. I ate the apples as I ran. Mother said I'd have nightmares. "You can't eat apples before bedtime." I took a nap under a tree to prove mother wrong. As I lay down a squirrel or maybe a little bird perched on my nose. My arms were already asleep and I couldn't brush them away. It was clear that I'd never fall asleep with such critters seated on my nostrils. I tried sneezing and was surprised to sneeze myself awake. There were no nightmares, but it had grown dark and I was still a young child then who was too afraid to play with the children of a Civil War hero. Yes, I was afraid and that's why I return to you Kenneth Mulvey and our plans. It's apparent that I've messed the majority of them up. I have already made you my enemy and I have stolen all your chess pieces without placing you in check. There's a blank piece of paper next to me Kenneth Mulvey. I doubt you see it. I think I lied to you again Kenneth. I am no good at this relationship. The paper exists-it's there, I touch it, and it laughs at me when the wind blows-but the paper isn't blank like I previously thought. It has spots, small black spots. It's fleas. I'm contaminated. We will never meet now. I am diseased. I have left this world. Shut me in the closet and quarantine me. But the fleas don't jump. I am deaf to their squeaks. My paper isn't affected. Kenneth our friendship is saved. The paper is not covered with fleas, but pepper. I am no longer sickly and weak, but strong and no longer hungry. Kenneth, in the name of our new acquaintance I will taste this peppered paper. I've eaten dirt. Fleas (even if dead) and pepper does not taste like dirt, but a clean piece of paper sits before me. I've eaten this dirt to show you my integrity. I told you lies, but I took action to make them truths. Yes, a blank piece of paper sits before me.
I apologize for destroying the relationship between a fiction editor and a fiction writer.
Sincerely,
Mark Baumer
P.S. I've attached the short story "Hunting Buddies" for thieves jargon.
P.P.S. I realize I have not included an author bio. My author bio is as follows: Mark Baumer once stole a bike, but the bike chain broke on this bike while riding in a neighborhood so he traded it in for a bike that was resting on a porch in that neighborhood. Mark soon learned he wasn't very good at riding bikes when he popped three tires in the span of a week and a half. He chained the bike with a flat back tire to a street sign. Three days later when Mark returned to the bike he found someone had stolen the front tire. Mark cursed the heavens for making such a beautiful world.
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