The World Famous Writer
Andy Dormant was an unknown writer who couldn't give two pairs of pickled figs for fame and what not but, BUT his brother Charles (who he mocked as Charlatan) was quite organised, don't you know.
“I remember to proofread my stories,” Charles bragged. He was also good at folding laundry, returning telephone calls, and always remembered when trash day was, just to make things complete. (p.113)
Andy's deal was not so shuffled beforehand, if you will. He let his typer do the spellchecking, and everything he storied was just “golden dynamite,” as it were -- no second draft needed, my stars!
“If you think the Ghost King gives a pickled plum whether or not you spell stuff right, well *you're* the dingus,” steamed Andy. It was his classic manner of reconciling guilt issues with society.
It should be known that old Andy boy was *not* published, though he claimed his tweetings and emailings were close enough. To make a stubborn point, he would email all his work to their mother. ($1.13)
“He does try,” explained their mother's private mind. “If only he were more like his younger brother.” Her thoughts then returned to the present, and she placed his “story” in a special email folder.
Charles was quick to register his work with the story patrol, lest he find someone else's name on it, plus with the title change. It happens. It's the world's cruel way of letting you know about it.
“I don't see why you register your stuff,” puffed Andy. “I been doing this for years, and *never* got stolen from.” And also with the furrowed smugbrow, just to let you know about his self-esteem issue.
Next door to the Dormant brothers was Rodney Chesterwood, who had zero interest in writing, or even reading for that matter. He enjoyed classic reruns of “I Like Betty” and cleaning his yard tools.
“You'd think this baby'd never been used,” he chuckled to himself. He did a lot of that, plus with the one-sided conversations. “Yes, I *would* like some more tea, thank you,” he would pretend.
Rodney kept all his sports memories in the closet, out of sight of any sneaky ghosts or imaginary friends in the neighbourhood. In his private mind, an ounce of prevention kept the wolves at bay.
“No dice with *this* guy,” the mischievous ghosts and/or imaginary neighbours might say, were they so malevolent. But that didn't happen because to be quite frank, Rodney was a bit paranoid. QED.
There was also a third neighbour, who lived next to the Dormant brothers, and Kelley was quite friendly. She *always* said hello to them, but to be quite frank, she wanted nothing to do with Rodney.
“That man is so rude,” her private mind explained to you, using the power of story waves. “I often consider using a wish candle to make him be nicer.” But she remembered from school about meddling.
To really rub salt into the Dormant brothers' relationship, Andy *did* in fact get published ... by accidental fortune. A guy at work needed one more story for an anthology, all to Charles' chagrin.
The Brother.