The Writers' Circle

His hands shook, slightly, over the paper. The blue ink biro pen made a scratchy line on the upper left corner, so he threw the sheet away and took a new one.

"Dear-no, not dear."

He skipped a line.

"Greetings and salutations would do better."

Greetings and Salutations, Max Rave, I am your biggest fan. 

I know what you're thinking. Me? You're a fan of ME? Like, why would anyone love the loser who attempted suicide after being voted Best Artist on Kid's Choice Awards, Nickelodeon's finest, truly. I understand man, you wrote that pop-joy bastard song as a sort of joke, and yeah, then you needed money, so you sold out and wrote an entire album, but for chrissake get over it and go back to the dark and nasty songs of your youth, before you got so fucking happy.

The phone rang, and he jumped. He breathed deeply, like yoga, it's just a telephone, they're not out to get you, a telephone.

He realized he'd have to answer it.

"Hello? Hello? James, it's the COPS they're coming up!"

He pounded the receiver the desk until it broke. Standing, he took the entire phone, dropped it on the floor, and stood on it.

"You-fucking-prank-CALLS!" he accentuated each word with a jump.

"Damn," he muttered. "Another phone down. I know I'm paranoid; don't mean they're not after me."

Quietly, he returned to his seat and continued writing.

Trust me, dude, you've done a great job. So you went corporate, I don't listen to it, but I don't care, and neither do your real fans. True, there's probably only a tenth of real fans to all your pop-loving dumb sheep fans, but do it for them, man. Do it for that tenth.

He stopped writing then, and looked out the window, the most fucking interesting view he'd ever fucking seen. Far, far, far away, there was a road that never had cars on it. It was sad in a way, like second-hand stores full of unwanted products, or car junkyards full of car crash deaths. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag. The smoke was smooth.

The city came on in layers, first tall, bare, crime-ridden buildings, then small tacky houses, then a commercial layer full of shops and large neon signs, then more of those apartment block buildings. The tacky houses were a little frightening, because you just never knew. But he was lucky, he lived on a hill, he could look down and watch, like some wasted rotten bankrupt dirty god.

Someone tapped at his door.

He shouted, 'Come in, it's open!"

It was Cate, from one floor down. She was old, or older than he was anyway, over thirty, with a possible two children and a husband. James wasn't sure about the children.

"I've brought you some breakfast," she was in a surly mood; she clunked a tray down, next to the broken phone. He pushed his chair back; it hit the wall behind him. The room was small, just wide enough for a double bed, but he didn't even have a double bed. Anyway, the desk took up most of the space. The room was four meters long, he had measured once.

"It wouldn't kill you to clean up," she told him.

 "You do it," he said contemptuously, and brought the cigarette to his lips again.

She slapped him, her bony fingers stung red.

"I'm not your maid, and I'm sick of you treating me like one."

He sulked, so she pulled his head back, and kissed him luxuriously.

"I'll see you soon," she said, straightening her shirt and slamming the door. He licked his lips nervously, tapped his fingertips on the desk, and returned to the letter.

Don't don't don't don't don't do it. I'm begging you. You are a reason for me, and you can't do it. Don't don't don't don't don't do it.

"I can't write that," he said to himself, and scratched it out.

Just scrap everything, and start over. I support you fully. I'll buy a full thousand copies of your next album if need be, just make it good. Get to your roots. Man. You know, you saved me, you literally did.

Now he wanted to cry. He dragged hard on the cigarette again, and rubbed his eyes, but a tear dropped on the page and made the ink smudge a little.

And if you don't fix everything, and fix yourself, and become human again, I just couldn't.I couldn't fix me. 

I need you to need me to be alright, that, and I need you to be alright. Why can't we both be fine? Just why not?

He picked up his pen again. The cigarette went into the ashtray.

The first album of yours I bought, I got it on vinyl, and on my way home these two shitheads came out of nowhere, they were gonna rob me and kill me. They even had knives, knives and weird hair. But they saw I had your first record, and high-fived me instead. I went home safe, and that, Max, is how you saved my life. I'm nothing to you, but I hope that gives you even just a little faith in yourself. You can do important, wonderful things to the entire world.

He signed his name, and wrote it again in crooked capital letters. Then he stood, stretched, and lay on the floor, his arms flung above his head.  And he smiled, told the ceiling, "Maxxy Rave will soon be back in business."

When Cate came back, in her nurse's costume and carrying handcuffs, he was sleeping. She poked at him with her stiletto heel until he woke up.

The End

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This work makes use of itallics and bolded and underlined text, HOWEVER I don't know how to bold/italicize/underline text here so...use your imagination.