Prose                                       
The Life and Death of Sullivan Exonia

  Seven years later Sullivan Exonia woke up to find himself on a park bench in the cold dying of untreated AIDS. His liver and lungs were destroyed. He was almost blind and he was withering away. And Sullivan Exonia remembered how he had got where he was. He had forgotten why he got to this place. He had not written a word since his wife left him. And he knew it was time for him. He stole some paper and pens from an office supply store.

  And Sullivan Exonia wrote.

  And Sullivan Exonia created a truly brilliant novel. One that would change people’s lives. One that would be praised for its stylistic and thematic brilliance. One that would influence writers for generations. One that would be known as a true great from this era in time.

  And when Sullivan Exonia had finished his novel, he lay down on his park bench and thought. He had succeeded. He knew that. He knew his book was brilliant. He knew that he would be known forever.

  And he thought about the life he had ruined. He thought about the pain and suffering he had felt and the love and joy he had left behind. And Sullivan Exonia realized something. He realized that one day someone like himself would read his brilliant novel. And this someone would read about the life of Sullivan Exonia. And this person would mimic the life of Sullivan Exonia so that he or she could write a brilliant novel too.

  And Sullivan realized he didn’t need this book. He realized he would trade this brilliant novel for his old life with his health and comfort and the love of his wife and kids and parents and the ability to write good books even if they weren’t great. And Sullivan Exonia did not want someone else to live like he had lived.

  And Sullivan Exonia knew what he had to do.

  The police officer found the man on the park bench. He was starved and frozen and quite dead. He was clutching a pile of papers with beautifully written prose scattered across every inch. On the man’s shirt was pinned a note that said in impeccable handwriting:

  Destroy these papers and burn my body. My last wish is that no one read what I have written.

  Signed,