As if it makes any difference, the stench wafting from what the flies so love has been told to await a freshening, again.

Where is my fly swatter.

They say more time, edit, again, later... as if it matters, anything matters. Who cares. I'll toss the pages in the air and the words will disappear as if they never were, and who would know the difference. And does it even matter?

Buzzing my head, the fly taunts. STOP!

Nasty insects.

None of it really matters.
Do I even have a say?
What is that smell?

Leave me alone.








Walter? Have you seen Walter? You must be Walter...

The fly has driven me insane, and turned my publisher into a coward.

Fly Fumes will not be out until next year, and if I can find another publisher/agent, it will be set free on a different tangent.

Cowards and idiots need not apply.

If philosophy in fiction frightens, just move along.




Who said that? Who’s talking? Who’s there?

As a courtesy, it should be pointed out that if you firmly believe in your unique significance, Fly Fumes should be avoided at all cost.

They are still talking. I thought it was done, but they continued. I guess when there is a psychotic break, predictability is lost.

Fly Fumes is done! Now, it is time to put it into a computer and edit.