Dorn had read a lot of fiction – past, present and future; stories, novels, plays and poems. Most contemporary stuff he found boring – more specifically, dull, badly-written and uninspiring. There was a distinct lack of vision in most fiction, so he wrote the type of fiction he wanted to read – fiction that involved people who had overcome opposition of one type or another. Triumph. Not failure. Not rejection. Not negativity. There was too much of that in the world already. Stories needed to entertain, lift, inspire, make points, educate, and provoke thought.

          That was why he wrote.

          There were of course his literary heroes – a few stand-out authors – Poe, Lawrence, Maugham, Bradbury for short stories; Joyce, Djian, Burroughs, Rand, Vesas, Selby Jnr, Ballard, Pynchon, Kavan, Beckett, Carter, Huxley for novels; Shakespeare, Marlowe, Webster, Sophocles, Stoppard, Pirandello, some Brecht, Wilde, Pinter, Orton, Griffiths, Potter for plays; Plath, Pound, Dickinson, Blake, Hopkins, Baudelaire, Reed, Sappho, Petit, Lowell, Petrarch, some Eliot, Shakespeare, some Ginsberg, Whitman, Crane, Apollinaire, early and late Hughes for poetry – but the rest were second rate or mediocre at best.

          Dorn printed his story out and read it through again. After making sure it contained everything he wanted it to contain, he opened his handbook that listed magazine publishers. He found one that claimed to want ‘fiction about writers and writing’. He wrote a covering letter, addressed and stamped the envelope, making sure he included the editor’s name, then put the story, letter and s.a.e into the envelope.

          Getting up, he went out of his house, up to the post box and posted the story. Back home, he printed out his story again, saved the file, then took the story into his bedroom.

          Laura was stretched out in their bed, halfway through a film. She looked up and smiled as Dorn entered the room.

          “Is it ready?” she asked, after they had kissed.

          Dorn nodded and handed her the story, then left the room.

          Back in his study, Dorn paced up and down, back and forth, going from his desk to his armchair and back again repeatedly. He was unable to settle. He was nervous. He was always nervous when Laura read his work. She was one of the few people who instantly – intuitively – understood – no, comprehended all he was doing with his fiction – why he wrote.

          There was a sound at the door. Dorn looked up. Laura – naked and beautiful – came into the room, the manuscript in her hand. She held it out to him.

          “Well?” Dorn asked, taking the pages from her.

          Laura smiled and said: “It’s a triumph.”

A Triumph

© R J Dent (2010)

www.rjdent.com