“Not a single damn sale!”

  Peregrine refreshed the webpage every couple of seconds and couldn’t confidently say how many times he’d done so. His finger was sore from clicking the mouse over and over, that much he knew for sure. He also understood clicking with force didn’t result in magical sales.

  Thus was the life of an author. A wannabe author. A pretend author. A failed author. Maybe creative writer was a better title. Maybe it wasn’t. Peregrine had always considered himself a creative type. He’d written five books so far. That was something. Too bad the only people who had purchased them were coworkers and friends—not because they wanted to, but because it was mandatory for fake support—and he had very little of either of those.

  No matter what he did, be it online promos or buying ad space in a newspaper, he couldn’t generate any interest in his writing. It frustrated him so much that he often locked himself away in his apartment, in the dark, and stared at the wall, mulling over whether he had made a poor choice for a time consuming hobby. He had hoped to make a career out of writing, but that was looking less and less likely as the days wore on.

  Upset with another day of zero book movement, and having already put in the mandatory hours at his dreary data entry day job, he opted to go outside and get some fresh air. Maybe someone would recognize him. Or he'd avoid people altogether. Either scenario was fine.

  He took the stairs down from his fourth floor apartment. The elevator would've been faster and easier on his legs, but a little exercise wouldn't be the death of him. Sitting in a chair, in the same position, for eight hours a day would kill him much quicker.

  The apartment complex was close to the downtown business area, a breeze for walking for food and entertainment. The short stroll always gave Peregrine time to clear his head.

  He stopped at his favorite sushi restaurant, Squshi Sushi—an unfortunate name choice, but hey, it tasted great so who was he to judge—and ordered to go, taking his meal and sitting at a nearby fountain. Greedily, he tore open the paper bag and plastic containers and devoured a handful of maki rolls, dunking each one in a cup of soy sauce that dribbled down his chin with every bite. He wiped his face with a napkin and dug in the bag to fish out the spicy tuna rolls. He’d never bothered learning how to use chopsticks, so he did the next best thing and ate them like an uncivilized person—with his bare hands. It was messy work, but he had no one to impress.

  Deciding to enjoy the tuna rolls instead of hoovering them, he popped them in his mouth one at a time, savoring every bite. He took a heavy breath through his nostrils while he chewed, and studied his surroundings.

  Gray. Everything was gray. The fountain—gray. The large circular concrete area surrounding the fountain—gray. Same went for the identical storefronts. Even the sky was gray. It was all so drab. Why had the world become so vanilla and sterilized?

  Then there were the robots, people wandering about with their noses glued to their phones, not paying attention to the wonders around them that weren’t man-made. He watched as two people bumped into each other and continued on like nothing had happened, never looking away from their screens. Interactions like that had always helped to cement his dismal viewpoint of the world.

  Peregrine finished his meal and threw his trash away, then decided to take a stroll through the park. It was essentially the only place left in town with a trace of creativity. The entrance to the park had willow trees lining both sides, their long, delicate branches dropping low enough to graze the top of the fencing. He had traveled the winding dirt paths many times, but still managed to find the metal sculptures fascinating. Quite a few had orange rust lines and spots, developed from years of being exposed to the elements. Most of them had never been replaced as long as he’d been alive, and he was in his twenties. He ran his hand along the cool, metal pieces, imagining what was going through the artist’s minds when they crafted their works. What were their desires? Had they achieved what they wanted? Were they as miserable with their results as he was with his?

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Speaking of cool, a strong breeze had blown in, quickly reducing the warm, late afternoon air of summer to a chilly temperature. He hadn’t worn a coat since it was hot earlier, so he stuffed his hands in his pants pockets and picked up the pace.

  That’s when he saw a woman off to his right, crouching over the small stream that ran through the park. She had long, black hair that blew with the wind. Adorning her body was a striking dress as black as her hair, the ends draping over the grass. A small basket, piled high with red-stained garments, sat beside her. As Peregrine stopped and stared, he watched her grab a shirt off the top of the pile and dunk it in the stream. When she pulled the shirt from the water, she held it high and wrung it out, sending red-tinged water running down her porcelain skin.

  There’s no way that’s blood, Peregrine thought. Right? There must’ve been a larping group in the area … or a cosplay event. Those things made much more sense than a gothic-looking woman washing blood out of her clothes in the middle of a public park. But, then again, the world was a strange place and weirder things had happened over the years.

  The woman—still holding the red-stained clothing—turned her attention to Peregrine, her bright blue eyes piercing his soul. The fascinating thing was not only were her pupils blue, but her eyeballs were as well. They were so alluring … but with a hint of crazy hidden just beneath the surface, aching to be set free. Her lips curved into a smile … but this smile had no indication of friendliness. It was downright sinister.

  Peregrine, not wanting to get mixed up with a potentially dangerous person, responded by picking up his walk from steady to double time. He kept this pace until arriving at the apartment complex where, once in the comforts of his own home, he quickly pushed aside the mental images of the horrific woman missing a few screws, and did his best to forget about her. There was no way she had followed him home with his brisk jog. But he did set the deadbolt … just in case.

  After settling in, he took a quick shower, with his only other intentions being to relax and go to sleep—a lather, rinse, and repeat of every other day of existence. He plopped down on the couch, grabbed the remote, and clicked on the TV.

  “Hypocrite,” he called himself. “Yeah, yeah. I know.” No matter how often he ragged on people for never thinking outside the box, and always being glued to the machine, he did the same thing as them every night by succumbing to the TV. He also browsed on his phone while watching. Double hypocrite.

  But this particular evening broke the routine. Inspiration struck him. Vague scatter shots of ideas and scenes streamed through his mind. He grabbed the remote, shut off the TV, and stood, desperately looking for a notebook and pencil. Where in the hell had all the pencils gone? He jogged from the living room to the kitchen to his bedroom. Nothing. He'd used a pencil for work only a few hours ago. The ideas were fading from his memory as fast as he was creating them.

  Peregrine finally found a notebook and pencil in the last place he looked, on the floor next to the toilet. He didn’t remember taking the notebook to the bathroom with him, but he might have done it subconsciously. He often thought of plotlines while taking a shower. Putting pencil to paper, he began writing in a stream of consciousness style.

  “What if his brother kills him? Should this be futuristic, or maybe a medieval setting?” Peregrine leaned back against the couch and raised his head to the ceiling, twirling the pencil between his fingers before placing the eraser end in his mouth and moving it around with his lips.

  Character names flowed through his fingertips, jotting them down as he got up and opened the patio door to his small deck. He stepped through and sat on the railing, his feet dangling over the edge as he had done multiple times before when looking for inspiration. The wind had died down and the temperature was much more comfortable now.

  The sun had set and the moon hid behind dense clouds. Thunder boomed in the distance and the pleasant smell of rain lingered. Peregrine took it all in, using the scenery to conjure up a gloomy setting for his story. He briefly wondered if it was worth the effort. It wasn’t like anyone would buy the book, or be inspired by the story. Regardless, he pushed on, powered by the excitement of starting a shiny new project. Consumed by writing and plotting, he didn’t notice the wind picking up until it was too late.

  A fierce gust hit and Peregrine felt the force shove against his back like two strong hands. The notebook and pencil dropped from his lap as he desperately grabbed for the railing. He only found air. In a last ditch effort, he tried sticking his feet between the bars to catch himself, but he wasn’t quick enough. The last thing he saw from his fourth floor balcony was the uninterrupted space between him and the ground.

  And he fell …