"Nothing. Except I ... I don't write poetry."
WHAT DO YOU WRITE?
"Fiction. Yes, fiction."
OH, ALL RIGHT. PUT A CLEAN SHEET INTO ME AND WE'LL START ALL OVER AGAIN.
I put in a new sheet of paper, poised my fingers over the keys, and said, "Here we go now. Fiction."
I started to type.
The "Red Death" had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood.
"Oh, no," I moaned.
listen, whats wrong now. and will you please lock