Nothing, left or ever really there, but the solitary wisp of…bollocks.
Cheer up you miserable git, no need for moping…who gives a flying squirrel about so much of nothing? Nothing worth fussing over or worrying about, just a thing, as time and effort that makes no more sense than any other. No worse or better, the same and little different from anyone.
So carry on and keep on trying…but for now, as ever…its a no.
Until this point I did not believe you would make it this far. You had threatened to continue, but I had hoped that somewhere on the way you would learn the error of your ways. When I heard you were still at it, I hung my head and prepared to be raised to a point of anger that most can merely imagine, right now the veins in my neck are constricted in pain as they pump fresh bile to my throat and grist the mill of my embittered mind with thoughts of murderous rage. How dare you violate the sanctity of my thoughts, peace has been shattered and my soul left prone, shivering in the dank pit of your hateful prose. Leave me now and never returns…the pain, it streaks behind my bleeding eyes, as patterns of jagged spider webs slice vision into…NO! Stop…crawling pronouns chewing on my face….the adjectives…the horribly, devious adjectives are eating my eyes…can’t stand it…must…kill…destroy…reject…
To be concluded…
I’m sure we’ve seen this all before, so lets move on and forget all about it, hmmm? Not that I’d accuse you of any kind of copying, but these trends will cycle as they want and fall in some unpredictable ways, but leave me with no doubt that all things are destined to be repeated. What worries me more is how we can be expected to cope with the frequency of the repetition; there are only so many times I can experience the end of the world before I give up. All your main characters die in tedious circumstances, there is never any hope and everyone experiences moments of internal angst and brooding solipsism, which do nothing to interest the reader and everything to bore me senseless. I would like to thank you emphatically for providing me with such treacherous writing that covers me with a dull shade from which to illuminate real talent.
Are you still here? I’m mean, that shows either persistence or stupidity, you must enjoy it or something. After all this time, I had hoped you would take the hint, but it seems that you are oblivious to the harm you are causing me, literary culture and to anyone unfortunate enough to catch a glimpse of you ridiculous prose. Last week one of your titles caused a knife fight between two of my most favored employees and after I cleaned away the blood and prized the metal from their shaking hands, I realized that neither possessed any verbal means of communications. You robbed them of words. Not only are you so bad you cause fights, you somehow absorb the limited abilities of others. You are a black hole, sucking words and meaning from all those about you, and something must be done. I have decided that the only way to deal with your menace is to rub you out. For this purpose, I have crafted an eraser of such sophistication that it’s mark of HB, can only warn at the trouble it will cause you. It is mounted upon a 6 foot pencil, sharpened to a razor point that will pierce at the heart of your errors and cross through your hateful mistakes. My only fear is that in the struggle you may wrest this instrument of power from my arms and use it against me, to produce yet more ghastly crimes.
It’s getting difficult for me to explain that despite your persistence you are getting no better; whereas most people develop with practice, you have in fact got far worse. There is no inspiration, no signs of intelligence or learning. You have not progressed and I hope that you will soon realise that there is not point in continuing. I’m sure you won’t take the hint, as nothing has stopped you up until this point, but in the unlikely event that you will heed my warnings, I would like you to know that if you write one more word then I will hunt you down and remove each of your fingers with a pair of bolt croppers.
No, not now, not nearly necessary nor never needed.
I could publish this story you have sent me, it would be entirely possible. It has a beginning, a middle and an end. There is a twist. It has characters and a situation in which they interact to reach, understand and explore their motivations. In fact, I found it exciting and interesting, it reignited my enthusiasm for literature that you had produced a work such as this. And yet, if I were to publish this story, who are it’s audience? Truly, I do not believe there are people out here with the intellect, the understanding of life or even the basic sense to cope with reading this. The minute the average reader cast their eyes on the magnificence of your opening sentence they would be ruined for any future experience, not just of reading, but if life itself. Your writing is dangerous. Please stop.