Having
little to his name when he died, the Reading of Henry Fromm’s Will
went quickly. He hoped to be out the door and on to a new life as
fast as possible. The past one hadn't been Pulitzer material, in his
view. Racing past the shelf of grammar books, he waved good-by with
relief. “'The Reading of Henry Fromm's Will, indeed',” he
muttered to himself. “What kind of name was that to stick a fellow
with, anyway? “
“Deserved
to die stillborn,” a sepulchral voice murmured in his ear. “Would
have red-pencilled it at birth, if it had been my sentence.”
The
Reading groaned. “I thought I was through with you. What's the
point in being dead if you're still around, carping and editing?”
“Grammar
is forever,” the voice intoned, with a touch of smugness.
“Oh,
but your name is wonderful. It had so much promise!” cooed an
enthusiastic voice.
“Ah,
my dear Romantical Writer, you are such a pollyanna,” Grammar said
loftily.
“'S
my middle name,” she sighed coyly.
“Romantical
Pollyanna Writer, how euphonious,” Grammar remarked sarcastically.
“You
are an old poo,” RPWriter sniffed.
The
Reading of Henry Fromm's Will sidled toward the doorway. He could
see the bright white light shining through it. He knew that a new
life awaited him on the other side, but he had no intention of taking
these two with him if he could help it. Now, while they were
snipping at each other, was his chance.
He
leaped. Before him, the clean, white page rose in its pristine
majesty. With a cry of abandonment, The Reading of Henry Fromm's
Will flung himself at the page.
There
was a moment when time itself held its breath. Then, dizzy with the
mental effort of suspending itself, it gasped and opened its eyes.
There
on the page was the newborn first sentence. Glorious, pregnant with
hope and potentiality.
"That
was the best game we've ever had!"
The
string of words giggled in sheer relief. He was in quotes! Anything
goes in quotes! No Grammar to nit pick him into obscurity. And if
old Romantical Pollyana wanted to have a go at him, that was all
right, too. She was kind of attractive, in a wimpy kind of way. At
least she was more cheerful than some of the other writers who had
grasped at him with visions of fame in their beady little eyes.
He
settled down to wait.
The
beginning
again
I wrote this to enter a contest where the first line was specified. It immediately struck me that "The reading of Henry Fromm's Will went quickly" described an object, or entity, and the rest just followed. No, I didn't win.
