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Author's note: I am NOT 'The Author'! The author in this story is a panicky writer, and often pessimistic. It's a side of my brain i prefer to keep far, far away from me.
The door in front of me slammed shut, a file with my name emblazoned on the cover held in the editor's hand. I saw it, I knew... I had to get out of this hellhole called poverty, and this, this my friends, was my key. To others the door was labled M. Whitaker; to me, it only said freedom.
My foot bounced out of rythm, panic flooding my mind. No, no panic. Why panic? I loked around the room at the other hopefuls. Pathetic; they wrote "from their soul". Hah, where would that get them? Not out of the barrios they came from, not out of those decrepit apartment buildings with the mold-stained walls. I was smarter than they. I wrote from their sould, those so fortuned to fall upon my page. I knew that only I could disguise my soul so deeply no one would find it, only searching into the souls of others.
A creak! The door! It opened... composure, composure. Calm... okay... AH! He's pointing! At--at me? No, no, at the girl behind me. That girl with her story of 'the dragon that weeped'. BAH! At least I write with some relevence. Oh, look at her, glaring at me a tracing a tear. MOCKER! Get back from me! Oh, she thinks that she is so much better... she's not, I tell you! I am the fairer of the two!
And so, taking my place as the wicked step mother, I walk out of the office. I hated the girl... I wonder, where can I buy a poison apple?
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