• At first glance, the house was normal. Contemplation: the dead leaves in the hanging flower pot, the hairline crack in the window, and the shingle that had skidded down a few feet.

    He fell in love with it immediately. It was the house of his dreams. He paid for it in cash. Then got to work.

    Three days later, the first manuscript was out. The freelance editor approved, and a week later, minor companies had sent five hundred copies of the book to small bookshops. It was a romance.

    At the house, three days after the original purchase, the windows were unblemished and sunlight penetrated the marbled floors. An arrangement of purple nightshade flowers sat in a small, blue vase and decorated the wooden table. It’s shadow was opaque and faltered in the wind across the far wall.

    The next day, the nightshade was flaccid, and by late afternoon, they had been changed by a bouquet of white chrysanthemums.

    When the same time the next day came, the flowers were panting. He watered them and got to work.

    By the time he stopped working, the shadows were gone in the darkness. He let the vase well, ate some dinner, then went to bed.

    When he woke up, the chrysanthemums were dead. But he spent the day cleaning, until the marble floors were polished and the oak cabinets were free of dust. Before the sun had disappeared, he had replaced the dead chrysanthemums with periwinkles. They were blue; he was going backwards.


    The first book had not done well. But the second book, finished a day after the periwinkles, did introspectively well. He benefited a couple hundred dollars with the profits, and treated himself to frozen yogurt.

    His third manuscript was horrible. It was disregarded. In anger, he threw away the receipt for the yogurt.

    By this time, the flowers were pale. Petals cast hard, cold shadows on the tables. But his annoyance kept him in the house, at the computer. They weren’t replaced. Occasionally, he would walk around the house. The sun-dusted motes calmed him. The marble was cool to his feet.

    He went back to work.

    The manuscript was to be published, but the editor said that the words were dull. The proceeds were nothing special.

    He went back to work. Halfway through the manuscript, he stopped to eat lunch. The wooden table was pitiful in the sunny haze. When he got back to work, the periwinkles and the petals were swept away. Inside the little blue vase, were roses. They were red.


    The fourth and closing novel sold very well. The author made the most money out of it. And the other three began picking up sales. But reviews all spoke of the fourth novel being capable of representing itself, without the other three burdening it down to a simply mediocre level.


    The house resumed it’s empty post at the top of the hill. The little blue vase remained there. The roses had died long ago, but they stayed, withered and brown.



    At first glance the apartment was normal. But he fell in love with it immediately, and got to work.
    By the second week, the first book was out on sale.