INT. EMPTY CLASSROOM – NIGHT
Scene opens with circle of desks in a dim classroom. Only one of the chairs is occupied. Countless sheets of paper, stuffed with text, litter the ground. The writer clears his throat and begins to speak, apparently to himself. No one else is present to disagree.
ME (TO HIMSELF):
It’s not bad, but, the characters are wooden,
the diction is uninspired. no rhyme, meter, or form,
and the prose is still dripping purple paint.
one-dimensional, plotless, bare.
what’s the word that can fix this?
maybe it’s time to start over.
we had to chop this sentence to bits,
dissolve this one’s body in an acid drum,
drop the others in the lake with concrete boots.
just saying that this story should hope that
it doesn’t run into me in a dark alley, and that
this poem is the neighbor’s cat that got hit by a car.
maybe you should keep this as a hobby,
for everyone’s sake. the best we can all hope for
is the death of the author.
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