From: The Last First Friday

A mostly finished short story of about 2k words.

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The boy nodded.  “You haven’t written that many books.  How long you been writing?”

 

“Thirty-five years maybe.  First published the year I got out of the Army..  I take my time on books.”

 

“That Patterson guy has written like sixty or seventy books.” 

 

“Different kind of writer.  Different audience.”  Brandt answered.

 

“Anyway, I’ve never read either one of you.  Seen some of your movies.”

 

Brandt shrugged.

 

“That make you mad?”  Kevin persisted.

 

“Millions of Americans have never read my books.  If I got upset about it, I wouldn’t have time for anything else.”  Brandt smiled.

 

The boy was silent a moment.  “What’s it like?  A stroke?  Did it hurt?”  The boy asked.

 

Brandt thought a few seconds.  “I don’t remember it hurting.  Don’t remember much about actually having the stroke.  I remember afterwards in bits and pieces until I started recovering quicker.  It was tiring and confusing.  I remember feeling like I couldn’t move, couldn’t do or say anything.  Time just…”  He paused and looked down.  “…went away.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yesterday was like it just happened and like it never happened all at the same time.  Today was like yesterday and like…  I don’t know.  Hard to explain.  But confusing.  It’s over now.” 

 

“Oh.”  Kevin said.