paperback writer

Charlie tongued the roof of his mouth. It had been a week since he’d burnt it, he couldn’t leave it alone so it was taking an age to heal. He clicked the page on the screen, he hadn’t yet correlated the effort he was making in reading the diary, with his inability to leave the burn in his mouth alone.

His great great grandfather’s diary was making reference to some novelist who had been staying at the house. He had searched online about the house when he started reading the diary and was shocked to find that it was an English mansion. It upset him a little, that he, four generations later, was living in a low budget rental apartment, working for the agency, eating simfood.

The novelist was apparently a writer of trashy serials, if the diary was to be believed. She was a friend of someone else staying at the house and was providing great irritation to Charlie’s ancient relative. So much so, that he had started listing ways he might rid himself of them, not all of them resulted in the guest being healthy or indeed alive. Charlie was getting an odd impression indeed of his diarist.

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