The Line

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The man in the high-backed chair was hidden in the shadows cast by the halogen desk lamp. A thin sheaf of laser-printed pages was the only object on the desk in front of him. A hand, the skin withered with age, slowly reached out and angled the first page so it could be read.

“Fanciful but dangerous,” the old man muttered, removing his reading glasses.

“We have all copies?” he asked in a louder voice from the shadows, holding the pages up.

The aide had stood silently on the other side of the large wooden desk, unmoving while the pages had been read.

“We have all that were sent out, sir. The author still has the original.”

“Is this all of it?”

“That’s all that was sent, sir.”

“And this is being submitted as fiction?”

“Yes, sir. It’s just a book proposal right now. We believe that’s all that is written.”

The gnarled fingers crumpled the pages.

“You were right. This must be stopped.” As the old man threw the wad of paper toward the trash can, the light glinted off the black onyx set in the large ring on his left hand.

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