by Cooper Young




Thought-snot. Your brain is running, so you keep wiping it on the page and thinking that’ll cure it. It doesn’t, and what ends up on paper is no good to anyone.

Why do you keep trying at this? Your life is good enough. Leave it alone. Leave it to me.

I’ll read it, but I can tell you right now you’re not getting any better.

Clumsy. Awkward.

You could steer a ship through this without any danger of hitting a plot.


Do you think anyone actually speaks that way?”


It went on. He tried to hold the page still enough to read, but his hand shook too badly to go on. He found his eyes creeping back toward the figure in the murky pink water of the tub. There was no need to read it anyway. He knew those words. They were his–if not always precisely, then at least paraphrased.

Good God, he thought, leaning heavily against the bathroom door, could you not even write an original note?


A note: Written in response to Trifecta: Week Seventy-Eight