Monday 8 September 2014

Full Stop



He kept to himself. He was just one of the nameless faces you walk past every day. He had a small one room apartment, and there he wrote. Every day, almost every spare minute, he sat at his typewriter and wrote page after page, story after story, book after book. And he never showed a soul.

Eventually, he died (Traffic accident). And so his sole relative, a second cousin, was the one to discover his works. She published them, and he became world famous as a serious author.

Which would have annoyed him, since they were meant to be comedy…

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