Fictionlet
“Holy–!” said Greg, staring at the screen of his laptop.
“Eh?” said Brigid, looking over from the muted television. “What was that?”
“I got an e-mail from Wenton Delaney,” said Greg, with quiet awe.
“Wenton Delaney? Isn’t he the guy who writes all those mystery books you like so much?”
“That’s him!” said Greg, looking like he might fall over. “He says Davis sent him a copy of Retrograde Maneuvers to get a back-cover blurb for the second printing, that he loved it, and that he wants to have lunch next time I’m in Boulder or he’s here in town.”
“Heh!” said Brigid. “Cool.”
“Cool?” said Greg. “This isn’t ‘cool,’ this is … well … the man’s a genius! This is like having Rex Stout phone up and say, ‘Nice job!'”
“Well, considering that Rex Stout has been dead for thirty years, that would be a little more amazing.”
“Well yeah,” said Greg. “But still! Wenton Delaney … holy wow.” He blinked a few times, then suddenly shouted like George C. Scott, “You magnificent bastard! You read my book!!!”
-Crampwell Barhostage
(PS: Still using fake names today.)
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