Rubbish-Filled Wastebasket

One-shots have been dunked into the wastebasket never to see the light of day beyond the flickering lights above the office desk. The room is barren, empty other than the filtering of stale air and the tick-tock of a half-dead clock. One woman sits in a swivel chair, swirling with her heeled-feet propped on the desk, while her mouth suckles seductively on a lollipop.

She is uninterested in the desolate office, uninterested in the hot, bland air, uninterested in the lollipop that glides across her tongue as if it has a mind of its own. Instead her focus steadies on the pile of short stories that teeter helplessly on the corner of the desk. Each have their own plot, their own characters, their own problems. They capture her interest and hold it as though she cannot bear to look away, lest she miss something truly amazing.

She hovers on the brink of excitement, digging through the pile, she once again finds a manuscript that calls to her. With eagerness, she turns the page.