LIFE IN A NOVEL

The trouble started when the light bulbs began to burn out in the novel. The author never replaced them. We realized we were on our own and could do whatever we wanted. I was originally just another nobody in an overcrowded paragraph: a stranger with “a distant look on his face” carrying “a black umbrella” who passes the happy couple in the street. Now I’m the only character left. Digging graves in the cold hard ground with my umbrella. I’m afraid the next person who takes this novel from the shelf will die of shock after seeing what we’ve done to ourselves.

Jason Heroux
Kingston, Ontario, Canada