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The Whirlwind Review Issue 1 Table of Contents More Poetry Previous Jeff Morgan
The Creative ActAs soon as I was alone in the house,I decided to make some peanut butter toast and write, but as I neared the stationary bike, the Devil crept into my head. Almost immediately, my editor was standing beside me at my writing desk, a lean, old man who looked like Samuel Beckett. He stayed with me through the toast and would stay until I had written something or somebody had come home. Our son came home with his agent. I saw half of the agent there at our dining table. He wore a pink sleeveless shirt with white stripes, his swollen face framed by his naturally curly hair and golden wire spectacles. To his right stoically sat two older gentlemen in suits. Our son decided to tell some new jokes. His agent bellowed, but the other two remained implacable. His agent claimed our son was going to make some bread with those jokes. I took up a pencil from the desk and drew some bread on a placemat, making a rectangle with an oval spanning the top and giving the shape longitudinal stripes. Using a knife from the table, my son and I both cut through the stripes, took a slice each and ate the plain bread. It was good. |
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