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‘Chapter One : I had fought the dragon and won.’


Benjamin Murray lay on his side, the side that hurt less, holding his breath as long as he could before the piss attacked his nostrils. 13 seconds, and he went again.

84 years later, one manuscript and one wasted life. Well, almost.

Where were they, his beautiful seeds? Kurt, Leo and Virginia… just fictional characters. Shit.

Ahh, immortality. Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! He coughed up more blood.

What was this for? Any of it? This hellhole, loneliness, this shit he called writing…

No. No! He tried escaping, but the piss had won again. He looked up at the wall. Little monkeys swinging on their branches, smiling. Taunting. What a stupid wallpaper. Benjamin Murray; father of three, writer… wallpaper guardian. All he was.

But then came the grin. He struggled up on his knees and climbed on the deflating mattress, smooth slab of charcoal in grasp. His jaundiced nails peeled down the wallpaper.

Maybe the landlord would love him. Maybe he wouldn’t.

He pushed the coal into the wall, and started scribbling his novel, grinning like a maniac.


‘Chapter One : I had fought the dragon and won.’

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