Nick Edinger is an aspiring novelist and graduate from the University of Iowa. He can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org, and reasoned with on Twitter @nickedingerbook
You have been on the Internet for a long time. On one of your voyages across this sea, you dock at a white room, decorated only by a row of books above the doorway. The tops of the books form a yellow mountain range, dotted with peaks and coursed by rivers. You look inside.
A large man sits in a chair. He does not smile to see you, for he was smiling before he looked at you. Still, his dimples appear and he stands up to his full, tall height as you step inside. His hair, brown and curly and big enough to compliment his jack-o-lantern face, needs a cut.
“Hey,” he says. “I suppose you’re wondering about this creation. Truth is, I don’t know who it was for. For my unchained dreams of fame and admiration? To prove that I can keep a schedule? The important thing is, you’re here, and it should be for you.”
You look around the featureless room, and notice no spots in the white walls.
“I forgot,” said the large man with a chuckle. He cracks his knuckles. Words spring out of the walls, painting the ceiling black, shooting over your shoulders and under his feet like water from a broken fire hydrant. The man’s hands, dripping with words, extend to you.
“Perhaps you can start here,” he says. “It’s me at my most vulnerable. It’s me outside of this room. And isn’t that why you came here? Isn’t that what you want?”