Colton: An Intersex Short Storry

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Daisy Martin POV.

Spring had arrived in Fairy Qrooke, the pollen was heavy in the air, and instead of keeping my windows open for fresh spring air, they were snapped shut, curtains pulled, and artificial lights turned on in place of the blazing sun. Spring break was underway, and it brought the heat. My fingers were tired from typing on the computer. My right hand reached for the simple white tea cup, the entire rim was plastered with the butter flavor of my lips stick, and there's nothing I enjoy more than tasting a bitter aftertaste after drinking tea with the sugar content of a can of soda.

I was a writer, a freelance writer, and, as everyone would have said, an author.

I'd like to think I was the greatest, but when I joined the Keith book club, I found I was at the bottom of the chain of greatness. I felt humbled in an instant.

Writing takes time, it is digested, and at least that was the case when I first began writing. With ten years of experience, a plot has been in my dreams since I was a child, and I constantly postpone because I believe I will remember the storyline. I always assume I'll figure things out, and I don't need to go for the spiral notebook sitting on the bedside table, along with a foggy glass of water.

I fixed my determined gaze on the small screen.

I had to complete the book.

"Not that it will rank above Beth's novels." Working as a freelancer requires a significant amount of effort. I essentially have to do everything. I need to make sure that I publicize and market my book. This is where the Keith book club came in. I believed it would give me the visibility I sought, but all it did was focus all of the attention on Beth. You may be wondering who my archenemy Bethany Holden was. She was an excellent writer. I even have her small sample book here, looking straight back at me. I read it twice.

Everything was great from beginning to end, which is why she got signed twice with best-selling author, editor, fucking New Yorker Rimes. Yeah! I was jealous. yeah! I wish she tripped over her foot, fell on her face, and died. But that does not prevent her from being an amazing writer.

"Ughhhh!" I snarled in frustration because the keyboard wouldn't function with my fingers, or maybe it was my unfavorable idea about Beth. I hit backspace, and the key dug deep.

The tale was not progressing as I had hoped, but I knew hers was. I reached for her sample booklet, which she made sure to shove in our faces during book club night, which was tonight again, but I'll skip.

I've been ditching for three nights. I couldn't face them, especially since everyone was reading my sample booklet. I knew the stupid book was rubbish. The characters simply didn't click, but I needed to offer something, and this was the worst of the worst books. It did well in terms of sales.

Pushing back the fairly thick book to me, I accidentally knocked over my drink, I quickly scooped up the laptop and dispersed like a million pebbles on the floor.

"You, clumsy tard!" I shouted in a faux British accent. "Bloody Hell!"

I watched with dismay as the tea gradually drew near the edge of the old worn desk. I have had it since I was a child. I haven't gotten a new one since I don't see the need; it works well.

With one hand, I slammed my laptop down and hurled it across my covers. Instead of running to the kitchen for anything to clean up the mess, I slowly backed into my bed, gazing at the disaster I had produced. This was my life. The room is a mess. The desk is a mess. A messy life.

I sat on the bed and raised the booklet to my eyes. I was on Page 45. Beth's writing style was excessively formal, and I attempted to emulate it a few times.

It didn't pan out. She wrote about wealthy, egotistical, strong guys falling in love with frail, weak girls, while I wrote about women who had dicks. Sure enough, everyone is after her book. Her world was full of romance. Not in mine. Mine was not authentic enough.

"Your novel isn't very excellent." I scowled in jealousy.

When I got to page 67, chapter 12, the phone rang. It echoed throughout the two-bedroom, ranch-style house, and I raced out of the room following the call. It might be the publisher. I could sit in my mess indefinitely, but I couldn't miss a call. I snatched the phone from the intercom.

"Good afternoon. This is—"

"Girl, it's Rochelle."

Urghhhh!

"What do you want?" I hissed at Rochelle; my five-year friendship with her was coming to an end.

"Shopping right now." She essentially demanded, and then shrieked. Rochelle never understood that I had expenses to pay and relied exclusively on my online books sale, so shopping was out of the question for me.

"No." I deadpanned at the sandy brown haired female. I knew her beautiful brown eyes, which were bright had widened.

"No?" She challenged. She was giving me another chance to respond differently.

I grumbled. "I'm attempting to write." I stated this after having spent the last three hours obsessing over Beth's book. That chick was killing me.

"And you need to shop so that those eyes perceive clothing and shoes instead of words."

"Come on, I need to release another awful book this month and have everyone ridicule it and such."

"Put on your clothing and let's go."

My brows wrinkled as I looked down at my mole rat legs, which were pink with a few light brown hairs strewn throughout them. Since I've committed my entire life to literature, I've practically gotten uglier than I previously was.

"I'll meet you in the mall in the next fifteen minutes, and please don't be late; we don't want to miss out on all the great afternoon specials." She squeals, making my eardrums ache in my skull.

I hung up and began scrolling through the call log, hoping to find a publisher's phone number. I knew every publication number by memory, and when I didn't see any, I longed to curl up in bed and read Beth's books.