The man was attacked.
By what however was the strangest detail still unknown. The terrace style apartment flooded with light and usually kept tidy was no longer. Books lay strewn from wall to door.
Passion pieces on climate change, essay collections theorising the true terrors of all religion, the almost full collection of King, Faulkner, and Hemingway, a smattering of Carver and Bradbury. Children’s books, yellowed with age and the familiar must of mildew.
Maybe they are family, he often thought staring at the intimidating, oak bookshelf, massive and full. The rare outsider appearance at his home would often look through the titles and murmur, “Well read”, as if they had any idea what it meant to be ‘well-read’.
But why did he now just come to on the floor covered in blood with his books out of the shelf, also covered in blood.
After examining the books, noticing pages ripped out, torn stub scars still clinging on to the spine, he retraced. The bottle of gin seemed like a good place to start and he was certain it was nearly full the night before and maybe his answers were hidden in the glass.
“Christ… Trashed” he mumbled to himself, seeing the scattering of rubbish, plates and cutlery that covered the kitchen bench.
At the corner of the table, a letter scrunched to a ball rested against the foot of a small rubbish bin. Hackles covered his body and he charged towards it, kicking the smattering of shit in various directions all over the floor. As he reopened it revealing its contents, pain soaked him like a cold shower.
Dear Mr Turnley,
We are sorry to write and inform you that after careful consideration of your recent short story collection ‘Diaries of my damaged reverend Father’, we decided that these particular stories will be best suited elsewhere.
Thank you so much for your continued submissions and hopefully one day we can find a suitable spot for your work
Regards
The Collective Printing LTD
The page sailed to the floor and he walked.
Gin in hand.
He gulped a mouthful of the cheap liquor and reached for a short thick manuscript titled ‘Diaries of my damaged reverend Father’. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a red texter and scribbled across the length of the cover, ‘REJECTED’.
yendyScollective©
