The Publisher d1

by brightonsauce

Matthew held many fingers in many different pies. A remarkable achievement for a chef, let alone a care home manager – come minor publisher of literary fiction. The care, the rest home facility fairly managed itself. Matthew having his run of the rooms, indeed inhabited a different bedroom every two or three months, more often even in this winter-time. Downstairs, Thelma, Louise, his Nigerian ladies busied themselves – plumped cushions, ladled gruel and wheeled chairs to window positions during their hoovering. It had been a fortuitous arrangement with their father, the chief, settlement in the wake of the fortune deposit scandal swindle. Ten million dollars never actually appearing in his, Matthew’s bank account. Instead he had taken the chief’s daughters in a plea bargain. Nobody wanted to disturb the authorities. Well, but that had all been back in ’95. The ladies [Thelma, Louise] managed the show: the dozen cash cows in their cardigans, their tedious disputes over remote controls, crossword clues, and scrabble.

Because of late Matthew had diversified, became a desk-top publisher, whatever that was. He sat at his desk, wore a top and published something. He wasn’t entirely sure what it was, had not ever really read any of the drivel posted to him, by and from, earnest authors across the land. He completed another draft e-mail:

My dear Marjory,

Thank you for the three chapters of your romantic thriller ‘Jungle Beat Heat.’ I shall most certainly accept you within my stable of esteemed writers. Please e-post at your earliest opportunity the concluding chapters and the print union process fee initial down-payment of 5000 US dollars,

Yours most sincerely

Matthew Pingu-Macallum

And he scrolled through his ten thousand junk posts on-screen. At least the author full body shot in underwear system thinned the submission slush cistern somewhat [what?]. There was only an hour to spare, and he nibbled his lip whilst the photo-scanner gurgitated the 200 folios of Locomotive Locomotion, Cynthia P Holland’s debut horror-erotica ‘experience’ as he had labelled the pile of crap in his very own e-mail to the author.

Having applied glue and a dozen staples, the resident’s hand-drawn front cover, he searched for car keys, his first and final meeting with the writer scheduled for 2pm down the town’s bookshop. He would, once again, with a sweep indicate the book’s position upon the shelf, before accepting a cash settlement. A tried and tested system, exactly TO BE CONTINUED