After years of having it uninstalled form it I decided to boot up this game again on my OG Switch after having gotten a new SD Card to put into it. After going through all the notifications of what I've gotten for some of the Heroes to wear, I suddenly found on the corner a notice of this being "Sunsetted". That confusion turns to anger quickly as it turns out that they're just SHUTTING IT DOWN on there and FOR THAT VERSION ALONE?! Are you SERIOUS?! The one version that made it worth a dang at all on there and they just shut it down there?!
It's bad enough that they took away third person aiming on there but now they just up and suddenly make this unplayable there yet Overwatch 2 is still available with no issues whatsoever performance wise?! The freakin' game was what got me switched over from that to begin with especially when it was closest to having the whole experience on Switch! And now they just decide to flip me and everyone else off that paid twenty bucks for that Founders Pack because what? They couldn't be bothered to work on it anymore? Yet still support the other platforms including a system that was synonymous with not supporting cross progression and cross play at the time?!
Man that is SUCH a major middle finger if I've ever seen one! Just as much of one as the blunders Blizzard has been pulling since coming out with Overwatch 2.
Yeah it's fine that it's not going away completely and it's still playable on PC and the other consoles, but I don't WANT that to be my only methods of playing this when the Switch has been my preferred platform to play this! It was the closest to having a more comfortable PC experience control wise on there too, and they're just abandoning it NEXT MONTH of all months?!
Screw that noise SO dang much! They better give us refunds for that BS or something!😤

Petite Jupiter sits in an otherwise empty room in Buckingham Palace, genuinely nervous for the first time in a long time. He keeps peering at a watch he wears under his plum coloured suit. He occasionally hears the sound of cheers and boos through the walls, like the very building is vibrating with the FBE crowd.
"I have no idea how they got the Palace to agree to this", he thinks, looking around, "but whoever sealed that deal deserves a raise from Capital STEEZ".
Not a minute later, a door swings open, and the Commissioner stands there, a towel around his shoulders, catching the last of the sweat from his forehead following his match with Jay Castle.
A little shocked, STEEZ looked at PJ with incredulity at first. The London local smiles back at him and said, "Commissioner, good to see you as always. I'm glad you seem to have got my note. And my apologies for the surprise - only one other person knew about this, and I wanted to keep it that way until the last possible moment."
Holding out a hand to shake the retired Hall of Famer said, "Good match out there. But, I'm afraid we'll have to catch up more a little later if you have time for a pint. I've got some business to tend to..." PJ gestures to the beautiful trophy for the winner of the inaugural Shining Light League. "The tournament has my name on it, so it only feels right that I'm one of the first to congratulate the winner..." PJ smiles, and STEEZ smiles back, as the pair shake hands, before PJ grabs the trophy and makes his way to the gorilla position.
"The winner of the match, and the inaugural Shining Light League winner: Dr Logan Wright!!!"
The crowd roared with ectascy as Dr Logan Wright scores the victory, and the referee holds his hand aloft. And amazing match, rounding off a fantastic Anniversary Show. As PJ nervously looked over someone's shoulders at a monitor at gorilla position, he waited for his cue. As Logan walked up the ramp to the back, taking in the adulation of the crowd on each side, he stood facing the ring to close out the broadcast. As he did, PJ started walking forward, giving the cue to one of the production staff.
Suddenly, the lights go down in the arena, and a second later the crowd hears this.
The crowd erupts again, as PJ walks out from the back, and towards Logan, holding the trophy in his hand. Logan, looking genuinely shocked, sees PJ walking towards him, smiling. He hands him the trophy, and leans in towards his ear and says, "You've come one heck of a way since we last shared a ring. You totally deserve this champ. That was one great match. Enjoy this moment."
Standing to Logan's side, PJ holds the hand not holding the trophy aloft, and with his free hand points to the winner of the match, and the cameras linger on that image as the closing shot of the show.
Logan, still fairly astonished, looks back at PJ as the cameras go off the air. PJ turns to him and says,"We'll catch up later champ. As I said, enjoy this moment, it's yours. But you should should get something to drink, and you've probably got some interviews to be doing, so don't let me hold you up! Besides...",he said, glancing at the ring, "...I've got some people to thank for coming out tonight!" He smiled, and particles Logan on the back, applauding him as he walked though the back.
With sweaty palms, and a short, sharp breath out, PJ slowly walks down to the ring, high-fiving the people in the rows by the entrance ramp. Walking up the steps and stepping through the ropes, he wondered if he'd remember everything he wanted to say. But on the other hand, he thought it was a little too late for that now.
As someone at ringside gave him a microphone, PJ felt a strange confidence rise up within. He had been away for so long. He hadn't been back since he retired. But, he felt at home, once again.
"Good evening London, how is everyone?" The crowd roar back a cheer in response. "Did you enjoy an incredible anniversary show?" Another cheer in response, and another wave of confidence welled up, and a feeling like putting on an old pair of comfy shoes. "I said, did you enjoy an incredible anniversary show?" They roar back even louder. "I thought you might have done!", said PJ, "And you know what, I did too!"
Walking round and talking to the audience on each side of the ring as he spoke, he said, "Given this show was coming from London town, and given the final of the Shining Light League was taking place, I thought I had to show up and be a part of this occasion. It would be rude otherwise, right, given the League had my bloody name on it!" The crowd laughed back as PJ smiled at them. "But, as you all know, FBE have the best fans in the entire world. You are everywhere, and you follow us everywhere. Your passion is unrivalled, and - although I'm biased - I know the best fans are Londoners." With that, a huge roar echoed around the hall. "Careful you lot! You'll wake the King! You lot aren't going to have voices tomorrow! But anyway, I just wanted to thank you all from the very bottom of my heart from coming. Without you, the show, and this company, are nothing. You are the life blood of all we do, and the reason the boys in the back bust a gut and leave everything in this squared circle every single night. Thank you so much for coming, it has been so good to be here and to share this with you, and to personally give Logan the accolade his performances in the Shining Light League deserve. Now, get home safe and..."
"Aye now mate, what's the rush?"
PJ turns to the top of the ramp to see a very familiar face walking down towards the ring: his former stable-mate, and the current FBE World Champion, Inferno.
"You really thought you were leaving without so much as a hello... or even a thank you? We both know things have changed since you left, but I was fuckin' certain you hadn't forgotten your manners! A little respect to the man who invited you to these holy grounds would be appreciated. After all, the Aethers hold all the aces in FBE now."
PJ, perturbed by Inferno's new brash persona, listens in as the crowd start to boo their champion, before saying "Seems like these people don't seem to agree."
"You're taking their word over mine? These luddites don't know shit!", Inferno retorts spitefully.
"Inferno, I don't know what really seems to have gotten into you over the past couple of weeks, but this isn't the guy I used to run FBE with alongside Desmond Caid", he said gesturing to the FBE Champion. "This isn't the man who knew dignity and politeness, as well as the anger and the fury, who could expertly navigate that space between the dark and the light. I don't see an Ace... All I see is... Well... A bit of a prick". With that, the crowd roared again, in seeming approval.
Inferno, standing on the opposite side of the ring simply stands there, and laughs at the man known as the Shining Light. "If that's what you think - I'll wear it like a badge of pride! Damn straight I'm a prick, and I'll even go one further and say I'm a full-fledged bastard! But above all, you know what else I am? The best. Both as World Heavyweight Champion... and at Pure Rules. You may be the pioneer, but I'm the master, and I've murdered more careers than you've had matches. When the sun sets and our boots are worn, you know we'll be knocking back drinks in Camden, but right now, there's something more pressing that's been on my mind since I stomped Desmond Caid last week. I've beaten them all... except you. My white whale, my forgotten brother, my forever counterpart. I'm no God but the word on the street around here is that I may be unbeatable, and wouldn't it be to your interest to dispel that idea by doing the one thing you never could - beat the man on the throne? Unless, of course, you're scared to take up the challenge? Because you're past it, and know you wouldn't stand a chance?"
The pair had been long time friends, so Inferno knew all the right words to press PJ's buttons. The Shining Light was no coward, and scared of no challenge. As the crowd noise swells, with break outs of "Yes!" chants around the room, PJ half hears the pumping of blood in his ears, and half hears Inferno say, "How about it then? Petite Jupiter Vs Inferno, at P.U.R.E.!"
In response PJ uttered the three words he had become synonymous with during his time in FBE:
"Bring. It. On."

I stumbled upon a peculiar twist in the world of ZIP codes that left me chuckling and scratching my head. I figured that the ZIP code “01776” - a number synonymous with the American Revolution - would be symbolically given to a place associated with the Revolution. I’d think a historic part of Boston, Lexington, or Concord deserves it.
But it's not! Instead, it's the town of Sudbury snatched that historically significant ZIP code right from under adjacent Concord's nose!
I dug further into ZIP code numbering to figure out why this was overlooked. I learned the first three digits are tied to a particular USPS Sectional Center Facility that serves a region. “017xx” is assigned to Framingham SCF; and “021xx” “022xx” and “024xx” are assigned to Boston SCFs. That seems like the first oversight: Boston could have gotten “017xx” — there doesn’t seem to be much reason to the SCF number order within a state.
Boston and Lexington are served by Boston SCFs so they start “02xxx”, but Concord is served by Framingham SCF. So Concord starts with “017xx”.
The final two digits are the delivery segment number. There doesn’t seem to be any geographical pattern to the delivery segment — it looks arbitrary. So Concord’s ZIP code could be “01776” instead of the less-revolutionary “01742”!
Now, let's put this into perspective. Concord, the town famous for the Battles of Lexington and Concord that ignited the American Revolution, does not get the privilege of owning the ZIP code associated with the revolution , "01776." Instead, it's Sudbury that somehow landed this ironic honor. (“01775”, the year of the battles, is assigned to Stow.)
Sudbury is a lovely town in its own right but only has minor historical connection to the war. I'm not saying that Sudbury doesn't deserve a cool ZIP code, but maybe someone at the USPS headquarters was not thinking about the human aspects of the codes the day they were assigned, who knows?

I've done some quick searches and I've gotten several different answers:

• Lilium auratum
  
• Lilium asiatica
  
• Lilium asiaticum
  
• Lilium orientalis
  

Are species names synonymous? If I were to label these, what would the proper name be?
I can't even find any of the species except for L. auratum on the Wikipedia page of lily species

I´ve been thinking about this, and I´ve got to say it´s really interesting. The Apex is a primary example of what the train wants to prevent.
But who is truly responsible for this mess? Well, I got to say almost every single major reoccurring character actually. Excluding denizens, Tulip, Lake, Jesse, Min-Gi, Ryan, and the Mirror police.
Everyone else contributes to this mess equally. The Apex serve as a cautionary tale, for both passengers, denizens, and the Train itself. Let´s break it down.
Grace: The main one guilty. She started this directly, being influenced by seeing Amelia´s number in the Pumpkin Car and from that point inward wrapping herself in lies and manipulation, rather than trying to seek out the truth or confirm her hypothesis, dragging Simon along for the ride. However, eventually her lies catch-up to her and she´s forced to admit her wrongdoings- being too late to save Simon.
Simon: The other one responsible. Yes, I get it. He was a young impressionable kid, suffering from a traumatic event and abandoned by the Cat in the face of death. He got influenced by Grace and didn´t know any better, so of course he latched on to the one piece of comfort and reassurance. However, I would actually argue that he´s the one responsible for every single extremist Apex policy. Grace might have gotten him into this mess, but he had a chance to question it further down the line rather than blindly following her lead at every step of the way.
And despite what Grace´s thoughts might say, I believe that he´s the one fully responsible for the denizen policy. Grace brought the idea of high numbers=good, but Simon was the one responsible for just about everything else.
The reason why I believe this to be the case, is because Grace shockingly easily discards that policy with Hazel. And even in Book 2 actually, she admits to Jesse that Lake is quote: not bad, just not like us. Now this is definitely manipulation, but I can´t help but wonder if Grace had doubts from the get-go. On the contrary, it´s Simon who drops the friendly act very quickly. Plus, he has a motive for enforcing this. Don´t know, but I think that in-spite of what Memory Hazel says, Grace is not as guilty as it might seem.
Amelia: ...Do I even need to go into why she´s responsible? If it weren´t for her taking over, none of this would be happening. She is the primary indirect instigator that caused a chain reaction. She´s not directly responsible (like Grace and Simon), but, just like her failed experiments, the Apex are her creation. And what´s worse, she dodges the responsibility entirely, instead reflecting the blame onto them. Amelia, please, show some responsibility! Everything that happened is on you, not on a bunch of kids that were trying to understand their new situation. You are just as guilty.
One/The Train: You might be surprised, but it is true. I really meant that every major reoccurring character is guilty. And One/The Train is no exception. In this context, they´ll be used synonymously. The truth is, if there is a lesson to be learned by the Train itself it´s this one. You can´t bring young impressionable children onto a wormhole judgement line, without giving them clear instructions on what are they supposed to do! Now you might be arguing that all of this is on Amelia, but no. This is purely One´s fault. Even before Amelia took over, the explanations probably weren´t much. Yes, even if passengers got their assigned denizen to explain, it could easily be mixed-up, like Kez who is so frustratingly vague, that Ryan and Min-Gi learn nothing. Oh sure, there were probably plenty of denizens who could provide actual explanations, but just as many could fail at communicating the objective properly.
And this is not even mentioning that the Train has been in service for milenias if not millions of years and THE BEST THING YOU COULD COME UP WITH FOR ALL THAT TIME IS DENIZEN EXPOSITION? REALLY!?
Wow, either you´re horrible at your job One, or just flat out lazy! Notes and written instructions, would be infinitely more useful! It really took you this long, to realize that, hey, maybe passengers would fare better if I (personally) provided actual explanations? Oh, who could´ve seen that one coming! Absolute insanity! Obvious sarcasm aside, One´s management(or lack thereof) is also a defining factor that led to the formation of the Apex.
But of course, he´s obviously not the one to just as equally blame! At all! His algorithms are omnipotent and without fault! You must all worship the Train like it´s some sort of godlike creature, or else.... Well, sounds to me like you´re just egotistical and unwilling to admit that your system had, has, and will continue to have glaring issues that you´ll not address.
​
But anyway those are just my opinions. Feel free to give me your thoughts, and comments.

The title. They ALWAYS do this WHENEVER we go out. I did not even get angry at that man. I whined about not wanting to change and his ego was so majorly hurt that he said not to talk to him again. I screamed at my Nmoms face telling her how fucking unfair it is that she expects me to wear the dress they both want me to just because her husband paid for it when she tried to tell me off for it. She cursed me saying that if God exists I'll suffer with my future child just the way she is suffering because of my "attitude". I cursed her back and said if God exists her there is no way in hell her stupid ass curse would ever work on me. Somehow I shut her up. She did not even have any logical or valid points to defend her point anyway and she DID NOT like it. She sneered at me telling me to shut it and called me some names that could technically be synonyms to the word Karen in the west. Ndad has been acting like I don't exist and I'm so fucking done stroking his ego by apologising everytime he stops talking to me for dumb fucking reasons so I remained unbothered. I thought she might have gotten what I said this time around. But no her useless head is too dense to let in any logic inside of it. She complained again and put out the same dumb arguments. God never gave anyone permission to even say a word with disrespect to one's parents and God this and God that. I'm sure God also didn't command to inflict trauma unto one's kids but here we fucking are. Like What the actual fuck????? Just because you pay for my clothes does NOT mean that you get to dictate what I wear. I'm so so so so so so so fucking tired. I wish I could get a job fast so that they stop being so fucking invasive into my life. Fuck them. They don't deserve to be parents.

Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."

Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."

Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."

Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."

Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."

Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."

Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."

​
Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."

​
Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."

​
Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."

​
Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."

​
Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."

​
Dylan drummed his fingers on the desk as he stared at the blank screen.
The Darrow Feuds
By Dylan Mandrey
He had been looking at that title for three months, and it was starting to grind against his sanity. He needed this book to come together, but he just didn't have the words. The sequel to Darrow Farm had been highly anticipated after the first one had spent six weeks on the New York Times Best Seller List. It had been a somber tale of pioneers looking for a fresh start and the strange and frightening neighbors they had found in the woods around Utah's Helmen Valley. People had loved his depiction of the farmers' daughters, especially Gloria, who had ultimately been tempted by the strange creatures who resided within the forest and decided to leave the safety of her protestant father and his homestead. They had wanted to know what happened next for the pioneer family, and Dylan's agent had been absolutely feral for his notes on the next part of the series.
Dylan was getting pretty interested in those notes too, wherever they were.
The fact of the matter was that Dylan had begun to come to terms with the idea that he might not have another book in him.
It hadn't been so bad at first. The book was successful, selling something like six thousand copies in its first week. He had been happy, his publisher had been happy, and his agent had been all smiles when he congratulated him on making the list. This was amazing for a first-time author, but when the book sold another six thousand copies the week after that, Dylan was taken by surprise. Suddenly his book was being read by book clubs, discussed on literary blogs, and his agent called to tell him that the prime-time show Calder Mane Tonight wanted to offer him a guest spot on his show for Friday.
"It's a small segment, no more than ten minutes, but it's huge for a first-time writer." his agent had assured him.
After the interview, he'd gone on to sell something like fifty thousand copies, and that's when the networks had taken notice.
Four months ago, he'd signed a contract with Amazon for the first season of Darrow Farm and cashed a check larger than anything he'd ever seen. Suddenly he could do no wrong. Suddenly he was the industry's gold boy, and everyone wanted a word with him. He made the circuit with the show's director, and book sales continued to soar. He was on Calder Mane again, plugging the show, when the notion of a sequel was first pitched, and it had been his utter ruination.
"So, with the success of your first book, how long before we see a sequel?"
Dylan had been unable to answer, gaping like a fish before he tried to formulate something witty that wouldn't sound too unsure.
"I'm working on the first draft as we speak," he said, flashing the serpent's grin that seems to be the providence of all successful writers.
Who had said all writers were liars? Probably many people, most of them as big, if not bigger, liars than he was. Here he sat three months after making such a pompous claim with nothing to show for it but a title and a working title at that. He was no closer to finishing this book than he was to finishing the first chapter, and as Dylan sighed and put his head in his hands, he came to terms with the hard truth.
He would never finish this book, and when the curtain fell on season one of Darrow Farm, there would never be a season two.
"Now, now," said a voice from the chair in front of him, and Dylan sat up quickly as he looked at the odd man who was suddenly in his study, "that's a bit bleak for someone your age."
Dylan took in the odd man, his mind stuck in that strange limbo between fear and anger. How had this man come to be in his study, a room that existed behind two locked doors? The locks had seemed a little needless until this point. Dylan lived in a fairly upscale neighborhood, in a three-bedroom loft that he would probably have to move out of in the next five years if he didn't get something written. He couldn't remember the last time he had heard sirens on his street, let alone heard about a break-in.
The man didn't appear to need any of his stuff, however. He looked more like a carnival barker in his long black coat, the white shirt beneath looking crisp enough to cut. One polished boot was perched on a knee, and his blonde hair looked odd as it hung over his mirrored sunglasses. He was holding a copy of Darrow Farm, which he snapped shut as Dylan looked at him. The book was a prop, much like his attire, and Dylan suddenly felt the worm of curiosity poking to the surface.
"Who the hell are you?" Dylan asked, the words sounding way more confident than he felt.
"I am Richard T Sereph, and I am a blessing to men like you." said the man, flashing an obscene amount of pearly white teeth as he smiled.
"Men like me?" Dylan asked, "I assume you mean writers?"
"I was speaking of desperate men, but I often find that the two go hand in hand."
Dylan sighed, "I don't know how you got in here, but I want you out of my study before I call the police. I am hard at work, and you,"
"Oh, I can tell," the man said, tossing the book onto the glass top of Dylan's coffee table, "You've been hard at work for the last three months. Procrastination is a full-time job, isn't it, Mr. Mandry."
"Now, just who the hell do you,"
"If you were a man of lesser means, I'd offer to pay you for your talent and take my leave, but you have something that many don't, and it makes the world go round."
Dylan stood up, confident that he understood where this was going now.
This huckster was after his money, and Dylan was in no mood to indulge him.
"Get the hell out of my house. At this point, I don't think I need to call the police. If you keep moving on this course, I'll toss you out myself."
The man smiled his predatory smile and reached into his coat. Dylan's compass suddenly swung around to fear again, and he took a step back as he tensed for the shot. The man would shoot him now, Dylan could already see the gun coming out, and he wondered what the news would make of his death? Famous writer killed before his time, they would say, and when the thud hit his desk, he could already feel the burning in his chest.
Instead, he opened his eyes to find a small leather-bound book sitting on the edge of his desk.
"For those with so much imagination, your kind always seems to need proof."
The book wasn't large, no great demonic tomb or heavy arcane bit of binding. It was about the size of an average paperback, about two hundred pages, but the leather covering it looked ancient. It was cracked, the symbols on the cover broken by jagged rifts, and the spine bore neither name nor legend. As it sat there, Dylan felt like something on that cover was watching him, something that did not love him.
"What is that?" Dylan asked, the man already crossing to the door.
"A book," he said, as though it should be obvious, "a very special one. It will give you what you need, and when you have it, don't hesitate to call me for more."
He took a normal-looking business card from the front pocket of his coat and laid it on the end table beside the door.
He left then, but when Dylan got up to follow him out, he found his hallway empty. He searched the house, but it was occupied by only one slightly ruffled writer and one strange little black book. Dylan checked the doors, returning to his work when he was certain that no one was lurking in his home.
He sat in front of the computer, but his heart wasn't in it.
His eyes kept straying to that little book, and with every glance, his curiosity grew. It was nothing, just an old book, but his mind refused to believe it. It was a mystery, something new, a Pandora's box just waiting to be opened. He typed a few sentences but immediately deleted them afterward. He'd been doing that for months, the words sounding lame as they sat like slugs on the page.
He floundered in this way for most of the afternoon, the book judging him as he played at work. More than once, he started to reach for it, always thinking better. More than once, he started to simply push it off the desk, but he felt sure that it would open its pages and there would be teeth waiting to bite him. In the end, he wasted another short time, and as the sun set and the day died, Dylan finally took the book in hand.
He couldn't stand it anymore, and when he opened it up, he was suddenly sorry he had given in.
The book made a hollow sound as it landed on the ground, but Dylan was suddenly rendered blind. An icepick had lodged itself between his eyes, and the sudden and blinding revelation made him glad he had been sitting. He had experienced insight before, but this was akin to the most intimate of defilement. If he could find the strength to lift his hand, Dylan imagined that he would feel his brains pattering to the carpet where a bullet had ripped through his skull. He was falling, falling, falling into some bright abyss from which there was no escape, and then, suddenly, it was all gone.
He was sitting in his chair, his hands empty but his mind full.
He wrote the rest of that day and well into the next, and when he emailed his agent the first ten chapters of what he'd written, his response was one of bemused confusion.
"This is not a sequel to Darrow Farm," he said when he called him three hours later.
"Is that a problem?" Dylan asked, already guessing the answer.
"If the other chapters are as good as these? I doubt it will be," he said, and Dylan could hear the smile in his voice.
* * * * *
He was sitting at his laptop again, waiting to be inspired.
Roland's War had been the story of a cavalry deserter who defends the town he has settled in from a group of his old army brothers turned outlaw. It was well received, outselling Darrow Farm and earning a movie this time instead of a tv show. Kurt Russel had even been cast as Roland, the main character, and the check they had cut him that time was even bigger than the one before. The royalties from the Darrow Farm tv show had also been substantial, and that's why he found himself here again.
Amazon wanted a season two, his publisher wanted a sequel, and Dylan, yet again, found himself trying to create gold from straw.
He had written a few sentences that he liked and a few paragraphs that he felt confident about, but he knew he would delete most of it later. The book was DOA, and he knew the likelihood of it all coming together was slim to nil. He might as well try to write a sequel to Roland's War for all the good it would do him.
As he wrote and erased, he thought again about the man in the black coat. He had looked at the business card more than once since that day a year ago, and he opened his desk drawer as he took it out, and looked at it again. Richard T Sereph and Libras Talent were printed on the front, along with a phone number. He could call him again, Dylan knew, but he had resisted up until now. He had no proof that Roland's War had anything to do with the book Sereph had left behind.
But, he thought as he hit the delete key on the better part of an hour's work, he didn't have any proof that it hadn't.
The phone rang only once before Dylan heard that smooth, oily voice waft through his ears.
"Why, Mr. Mandrey. To what do we owe the pleasure?"
Dylan gulped; the man knew his number.
A number he had never given him.
"I need more," he half whispered, and he could hear the muscles in the old demon's face as they creaked into a grin.
"The price is one hundred thousand. Send it to the account I am about to message you."
A text popped up with the information to a private bank account.
"And when do I," but Sereph cut him off.
"When the money is transferred, you will receive your book."
"But how long?" Dylan asked, his fingers dancing over the keys as he finished the operation.
He had hit send on the money when a cheery ding dong came from downstairs.
There was a box on the doorstep, and inside was another leather-bound book.
Mr. Sereph had already hung up.
* * * * *
After eight years, Dylan was still looking at an empty screen with the words Darrows Feud on them.
In those eight years, he had written five more books and made five more payments to Mr. Sereph.
In five years, he had written two more cowboy dramas, a sci-fi novel that had shocked and impressed his agent and his peers, a Slice of Life drama they had turned into a successful tv series, and a Fantasy novel that had even George R raving. They had bred three more movies as well and book sails in the hundreds of thousands. The name Dylan Mandry was synonymous with innovation and flexibility, and he had offers from as many colleges as he did conventions. None of the big ivy league ones, of course, but Dartmouth had offered him a very comfortable position if he was interested in relocating. They wanted him to teach his technique to aspiring writers, which was why Dylan had to turn them down.
It would be difficult to teach a class on "Get rich and outsource your ideas to a magic man with books that scrambled your brains 101."
His agent and his publisher had long ago stopped asking for a sequel to Darrow Farm. They had decided that he was a one-book man, and they had both made enough money off him to be satisfied with his writing process. They were happy to take his work and a portion of his royalties, and these days the checks were sizeable indeed.
Though, Dylan knew that soon they wouldn't be enough.
Mr. Sereph's prices were akin to the pushers he had seen in his neighborhood when he was a kid. The first taste was always free, and then they had a customer for life. Sereph's prices seemed to double with every call. One hundred grand became two hundred grand became four hundred grand, became eight hundred grand, became one million dollars. "I rounded it down since you're a frequent customer," he'd said, and Dylan had paid it even though it hurt to part with it. Despite being successful, he wasn't as rich as everyone thought. Giving Sereph several million dollars had hurt, and if the next payment followed suit, he would be nearly broke.
The richest beggar in literature, no wonder most of them just drank it all away.
He tried to resist the urge to call this time, watching the cursor blink as he tried to make the words come. Had it all been a fluke? Had he really thought he had another book in him? Had he been so foolish as to think he could write something that good a second time? No, he thought, the magic was still in there; it was him that was broken. He had gotten so used to taking the easy way that he'd forgotten how the craft worked. Mr. Sereph was just another pusher, and Dylan was his loyal junkie who just kept coming back for another hit.
He stared at the blinking cursor for another ten minutes, feeling his time ticking away, before finally calling Mr. Sereph.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the writer of the decade. I've heard your name bandied about with great expectations lately."
"Yeah, thanks for all that, but I need help with this next book."
"You know the price," Sereph said, "two million in my account, then you,"
"I, uh, I need help with a specific story this time."
Sereph was quiet for so long that Dylan thought the line had gone dead.
"Hello?" Dylan asked, desperately hoping he hadn't offended the man somehow, "Hello? Are you there? I just need,"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mandrey, but that's not how it works."
Dylan was speechless for a moment, "How what works?"
"I can limit you to a specific genre if you like, most of your fame has been in frontier dramas, but I can't help you with a particular story. It doesn't work like that."
Dylan wanted to get angry, he wanted to rant and rail at this man who had taken so much money from him, but the curiosity that had brought him to writing in the first place made him ask the question that was rolling inside his head.
"How does it work?"
That same muscle-tightening sound, like old ropes on a mast, could be heard as Mr. Sereph flashed his crest kid smile from the other side of the phone.
"Do you care?"
Dylan did, but he said no.
Some things were better left unsaid.
* * * * *
"Mr. Mandrey, how do you write across multiple genres like that? Where do you find the inspiration?"
Dylan hoped they couldn't see him hide his guilty smile as he buried it.
"Well, I find that inspiration is fickle. Sometimes it gives you a bounty, but not always what you need. I have been hoping to recapture that inspiration soon, but so far, it eludes me."
Class was almost over, and he always let the students pick his brain at the end. Dartmouth had been glad to have him, and the move to New Hampshire had been easy. Dylan had been able to pack all of his possessions into a suitcase, the ones he hadn't sold. He had kept two suits, some day wear, his laptop, and a few books. He had come to a new city with little but the clothes on his back.
If the five years before had been tumultuous, then the five that came after had been turbulent. He still had no sequel to Darrow Farm, but he had published two more best-sellers. Both had been two years apart, and both had been the sort of Oat Operas that he had started with. The first was the best of them, Flanders Holdfast, and when Amazon had asked if they could adapt it into a series, he had told them to go right ahead. They had asked if he would mind helping them with a second season when all was said and done, and he had also agreed to that. Whatever magic had produced Darrow Farm had dried up, and he had come to terms with the fact that he was dry too.
The second had been only the year before, and that was when he had come to terms with the fact that he had a problem.
Margarette's Sache had sold decently, but it had come nowhere near the cost of it. That had been when Dylan had sold all his things and moved to New Hampshire. The loft he lived in, the first eds he'd collected in college, the Dicken's third eds that had been his fathers, his clothes, his signature, his blood, his sperm, whatever it took to get that next hit of success. He had long ago given up on the idea that one of these hits would be the sequel he wanted, but that hardly mattered. He wanted the high of seeing his name in print, the euphoria of being in the mouths of every important person in his circle, the dizzying feeling as he looked down from his ivory tower at all the little people who wished they could be him.
That's why he was working here.
He needed the money, he needed it bad, and if he intended to feel that jolt again before he died, he would pay for another hit of that sweetest nectar.
He realized he'd been staring out the window and pointed to a young man in the front row. He thought his name might be Max or maybe Phillip, but after the number on the roster passed ten, Dylan had trouble remembering everyone unless they made an impression. He regretted calling on him when he stood up, that hateful artifact clutched in his hand like a crucifix. He wondered if Dracula had looked at crosses the way he now looked at copies of Darrow Farm, and as the boy's teeth fixed into a flattered grin, Dylan tried to make his own do likewise.
"I just wanted to tell you what this book meant to me when I was a kid. I loved all your books, and I'm not a sci-fi reader usually, but this one really spoke to me. I know you must hear it all the time, but do you think you'll ever do a sequel to Darrow Farm?"
Dylan thought about how to answer the question tactfully and finally decided on the truth.
"No, probably not. I've been trying for years, and I just can't make it work."
They dispersed then, seeming to understand that this was a good time to make themselves scarce. He reminded them to work on their chapters for peer proofing tomorrow and sat heavily in his chair as he thought again about Darrow Feud. It had been eleven years. If he hadn't done it now, he supposed he never would.
"Mr. Mandrey?"
Dylan looked up to see the same kid who'd asked the question, remembering suddenly that his name was Malcolm.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but I was wondering if," he floundered a little, setting the copy of Darrow Farm on Dylan's desk.
He would want an autograph; they always did. He had turned to dig in his bag, looking for a pen, Dylan had no doubt. Dylan tried not to sigh as he reached into his desk and took out his own pen, signing the dust jacket as he slid it back to him. He tried to smile, but it was so hard with the proof of his failure sitting right in his face.
"There ya go, kid. I usually charge twenty-five bucks for one of those, but your tuition keeps me warm, so this one is on the house."
Malcolm smiled, but when his hand came out of the bag, he was holding a sheaf of papers.
"Thank you, sir, but I'd like to know if you'd take a look at something I've been writing.
His hands were shaking a little, and Dylan looked at the clock before taking the offered pages. Malcolm's class was his last class of the day, and he had a few minutes to look over the kid's notes. He wasn't in a hurry to return to his dreary little condo, only having an evening of looking at the blinking cursor ahead of him or the equally bleak numbers in his bank account that never seemed to rise high enough. He laid the notes out, scanning them in a perfunctory way, but the farther in he got, the more interested he became.
"I hope it's not too forward, but I just loved your book so much. I know it's rough, but it could be something if I had your help. If not the actual sequel to Darrow Farm, perhaps the spiritual successor?"
Dylan devoured the pages as he read, his anger beginning to kindle. Who the hell did this kid think he was? This was plagiarism! This was theft! He'd see this boy thrown out of college, out of New Hampshire, but the most galling part was that it was good. He could have overlooked it if it had been trash, but Malcolm had written something great. To hell with Darrow Farm. This was something better than it could ever be. He only had a few chapters, but they continued the pioneer families' story flawlessly. The more he read, the less angry he became, and the more curiosity took over.
"Do you like it, sir?" Malcolm asked, and Dylan's face must have looked ghastly because he had taken a step back from the desk, "I know it's pretty rough, but I think, with your help,"
"This is astonishing," Dylan breathed, looking up at Malcolm as if he couldn't believe the boy was real, "You wrote this?"
Malcolm's smile was back in force, "I did. I wrote it because you inspired me, sir. Do you really like it?"
Dylan almost didn't trust himself to talk. He loved it. He wanted to help Malcolm make it great, he wanted to introduce him to his agent and tell him that there would finally be a sequel to Darrow Farm, maybe even two, he wanted to smash this boy's head in and take his notes and leave him for dead, he wanted to rip his skull open and eat his brains like some cannibal trying to get at his thoughts.
The last image gave him an idea, however, and his smile was genuine when he looked back up at the smiling young man whose future would likely be so much brighter than his.
Or, it might have been.
"How would you like to have dinner with me, Malcolm? We'll talk about your book, and then you can come back to my apartment and compare notes. I love what you have here, and I'm excited to get started right away."
Malcolm looked as though Christmas had come early, "I would love to, sir. Wow, you have no idea how much of a dream come true this is."
"Likewise," Dylan said, and as he rose, the two walked and chatted as Dylan made plans just below the surface.
* * * * *
"What have you done?" Sereph asked as he stood in Dylan's dingy apartment and looked at the comatose form of his student.
Dylan didn't think it took much imagination to see what he'd done. He'd fed the kid, they'd talked about his book, and while he was in the bathroom, Dylan had slipped something extra into his drink. It hadn't been anything too insidious, some sleeping pills his doctor had prescribed him a few years ago, but when Malcomn had started stumbling on the way to his apartment, he had wondered if the dosage had been too high.
He had called Mr. Sereph after putting the sleeping kid on the couch, telling him that he had his payment, but he would need to come and get it this time.
"I don't accept cash or checks, you know that. Transfer the money into my account and,"
"You'll want to come to get this payment, Mr. Sereph. Trust me."
Sereph had seemed eager to see what Dylan had for him, but now he looked mad enough to chew iron and spit nails, as Dylan's Grandfather had often said.
"Is this your idea of a joke?" Said Sereph, and suddenly he was in Dylan's face, the eyes behind his mirrored shades the color of piss.
"No, far from it," Said Dylan, standing his ground, "you told me once that, with my talent, you would have just paid me for it and been done with me, but I had money, so I could afford what others couldn't."
"Get to the point." Sereph spat, his face still very close to Dylans, close enough to make him afraid he would bite him.
"I take that to mean that you take these stories from other writers. I want his story. You can keep whatever else he has in there, but I want Darrow Feud. Take the rest, take him, take whatever you need, but I need that story!"
It was Mr. Serephs turn to take a step back, but his smile had returned.
"Wake him up before whatever you gave him wears off," he said as he took a familiar-looking book from his coat, "It might help if he's a little groggy when he makes this deal."
* * * * *
Calder Mane smiled as the lights came up, and Dylan was once again bathed in their glow.
He was back, riding the euphoria of his high, and he never wanted to come down. He had finally done it. He had conquered his white whale, and as the crowd stopped clapping and the house band quieted, Calder Mane turned to fix his regard on him.
"I never thought I'd say this, but it's a pleasure to have you on the show again, Mr. Mandrey, with your sequel to Darrow Farm."
The crowd clapped again, and Dylan gave them a peek at the first cover.
It had been the greatest six months of his life. He had received Malcolm's story in the usual way, but Mr. Sereph had refused any sort of payment. The book, oozing whatever it was that made up a person's talent, went into his coat, and out came a smaller one, which he handed to Dylan.
"The boy's talent was substantial. This will help other writers and more than makes up for your foolishness. I had never considered doing business like this, but you humans are always so inventive when it comes to the old sins. Please let me know if you stumble across any other tasty morsels in that class you teach. The writing world truly is a tank of sharks, and their hunger is wide and deep."
Malcolm had dropped out of his class the following week, and Dylan saw that he had left the university all together.
He hoped the boy found something to take up his empty hours but didn't really think about what he had done past that.
All writers were liars, after all, and lying to themselves was no exception.
"So it's been a decade since you sat in that very spot and brought us Darrow Farm. What led you to write a sequel after so long away from the source material?"
"Well, Calder, inspiration is a fickle business. Sometimes, it truly finds you when you least expect it."

I was diagnosed with adhd at nine years old but I suspected of more disorders as I’ve gotten older. I was eventually diagnosed with several disorders at age seventeen, including nonverbal learning disorder and borderline personality disorder. Before my borderline diagnosis, I’ve already done so much research regarding the disorder so I was already expecting it, but before my nonverbal learning disorder diagnosis, I knew about the disability before but never thought that I would have it. When I finally got a diagnosis, it gave me relief affirming me that I knew now what for sure was different about me. Some of the struggles I have with being borderline and having nonverbal learning disorder is with texting. Because it’s harder for me in social situations to understand nonverbal communication, I rely on texting more than conversing one-on-one since it’s a more straightforward form of communicating than having to try and understand cues in person. However, one of the disadvantages that come from texting is that texts may not always be immediately returned. This may not seem like a big deal to most people, but somebody with borderline may perceive not receiving a text immediately as a form of rejection. I usually get anxious about not receiving texts from my favorite person, the person that matters to the most. And as ridiculous as this sounds, even if I know they’re busy, not receiving a text from them feels like a punishment. The thoughts that plague my mind when I don’t hear from them are extreme. They hate you. They don’t want anything to do with you. You’re an inconvenience to their time. I feel so selfish because I know in reality my thoughts aren’t true, but in that one moment, it feels like fact. My hands shake. My heart pounds. I feel trapped inside my own personal bubble of intrusion. The anxiety is aching me and the pain feels like an open nerve. I feel so guilty because I don’t want to ever be an inconvenience to my favorite person, but the thoughts feel so real. And feeling enslaved by my own intrusive thoughts, I eventually give in and ask if they hate me even if I know deep down they don’t. And with top of having nvld, the insecurity is much worse because of your already low self esteem and because you’re more likely to misconstrue the feeling that they hate you. Another thing I struggle with is with assuming that people are always mad at me or that they hate me. Having borderline makes me very sensitive to social interactions, especially negative ones, and these interactions are more likely to be misinterpreted because of my nvld. For example, somebody could criticize me and this might initiate the extreme thought in my head that they hate me or that they’re attacking me, even if that’s not the case, and depending on who they are, I might either cry or split on them. They then usually assure me that weren’t mad at me or that they weren’t attacking me and this causes me embarrassment. And if they don’t, they get mad or uncomfortable and this causes distance between me and the person. I also always had difficulties in school settings with my comorbidity. I struggled in my earlier years of school up until I got an adhd diagnosis and an adderall prescription. However, it wasn’t until late middle school that I again began struggling with my academics. Some of the examples of what I had trouble with because of my nvld was that I remember taking Algebra 1 in eighth grade and I started to have a hard time reading graphs beyond middle school level. I also remember being in English 1 and being unable to identify whether or not a word had a negative or positive connotation because of my handicap in understanding emotions and tone in others. And on top of my academic difficulties, I always had trouble fitting in with my peers. I would say this is because of the poor social skills and social anxiety that comes from having both nvld and borderline. I had very little friends in elementary school, was shunned upon by my classmates in middle school, and it wasn’t until high school that I was able to finally make the friends I have today. And with being borderline, I have emotional sensitivity which severely impairs my relationships with peers. Growing up while in school, I always have been synonymous of being a crybaby and this would be because of the emotional sensitivity I have. This would cause my peers to not want to engage with me because they thought I was too emotional to be around.

For many of us, bar prep and the bar exam are a time of uncertainty, self-doubt, synonym synonym synonym. I often wondered if I was studying enough or studying correctly, and I came to this sub fairly often to see how others were faring.
I saw a few posts like this while I was studying for the bar, and I found them helpful, so this is my attempt to pay it forward, in the hopes that one or two of you may find it helpful or reassuring.
I’ll try to briefly cover my study approach, as well as my experience with the test itself.

Overview

State: North Carolina
Passing Score: 270
Score Received: 318 (MBE: 153.6, MPT/MEE: 164.4) Note that NC does not give MPT/MEE score breakdowns when the overall score is passing.
Bar Prep: Themis
Completion Percentage: 86%
Practice MBE Completed: ~2000 (avg. 67% correct)
Practice MPT Completed: ~12
Practice MEE Completed: ~100

Before Bar Prep

Honestly, I never intended to take the bar when I went to law school. I was a little older than your average law student, and had a decent established career beforehand. My bosses had been lawyers, but not "practicing attorneys." I figured I'd get a J.D. and just move up another rung on the corporate ladder. But in law school, you almost get swept into taking this thing, it's just what everyone does. So...here we are.
My attitude going into bar prep was “I’ll just do my 5 days a week, and it won’t be fun, but it’ll be fine.” I was (naively) unconcerned about passing, I just took it for granted that I’d do the work and everything would work out. If you’re currently in bar prep, you’re probably thinking, “wow, this guy is an idiot,” and you would be correct. I had no idea the amount of work this thing would take, and the substantial toll it would take on my mental health.
I picked Themis for bar prep because…reasons? A couple of my law school friends bought Themis, and they were much smarter than me, so I trusted their decision. Then one of them sent me the info for a discount, so that pretty much sealed my fate.

Bar Prep

My law school had graduation on a Friday, and I started doing bar prep the following Monday. This gave me 10 weeks of prep before the test.
Themis’s schedule will tell you to work 7 days a week. I think it gave us 3 holidays off over the span of the whole course. This was a bit of a gut-punch to me, given I’d expected to just do 5 days a week. After all, doesn’t everyone say to “treat it like a full time job”? And isn’t a full time job generally 40 hours over 5 days? Anyway, I knew 7 days a week wasn’t going to work for me, so I decided to do 6 days a week, and take Sundays off. More often than not, I ended up doing about a half-day on Saturday as well. Having the day off every week was great for recharging my batteries, and, you know, not going batshit crazy.
Generally, I just followed the program and did what Themis told me to do. If Themis said to fully write out the MEE or MPT, I fully wrote it out. If Themis said to just outline it, I’d just outline it. I tried to “trust the process” and give my best effort to every assignment. The one big exception is that I did not read the long outlines. I read the first big outline for Contracts, but it was so long and dense that I decided the time it took to read it and digest it just simply wasn’t an efficient use of my limited time, so I didn’t read any more of them. I felt insanely guilty and worried about this, but in hindsight, I think I made the correct decision there. I found the shorter “final review outlines” to be much more palatable and worthwhile.
I didn't devote any time to just sitting down and trying to memorize rules. I didn't make a single flash card. I know from many years of school that I learn best by seeing and using information over and over. So, for me, just grinding the MBEs and MEEs was my learning strategy. If I didn't know a rule for an essay, I'd look it up, because I figured seeing the rule and writing it out was more valuable than trying to BS my way through. If I didn't know a rule for an MBE question, I'd answer without looking it up (I found the percentage stats useful, and wanted an accurate picture of how much I was improving), but I'd read the explanation. Actually, I'd almost always read MEE and MBE explanations. After seeing rules again and again, they began to seep in. That being said, you may have a totally different learning style, and that's ok! You should use whatever methods have worked well for you in the past.
The last week of bar prep, I abandoned the Themis schedule. At this point, I was consistently scoring in the high 60s to high 70s on MBE sets, so I felt good there, but I was worried about the MPTs and MEEs. During my MPT practice, I had been copying/pasting heavily from the library, but I found out very late in the process that the actual exam (at least in NC) doesn’t allow for copypasta from the library. This screwed up my whole strategy, so the final week of prep I felt like I needed to do several MPTs working only from the paper library. As for the MEEs, the sheer volume of information scared the crap out of me, so I decided to just touch as many essay prompts as possible to see what kinds of things they’ve asked in the past and look for any patterns. I started with the most frequently tested MEE subjects and worked my way down, making sure I touched at least a couple essays for every topic. I was comfortable with timing at this point, so rather than writing them all out, I’d do a rough outline and then read the sample answer.
The Sunday before the bar, I did some VERY light review. The Monday before the bar, I did absolutely nothing bar related, other than have a panic attack. That was cool.

The Test

They told us to get to the testing center pretty early in the morning on test day to check in. So, naturally, everyone got there at the suggested time, and we all stood with our laptops out in the rain for a long time before they even opened the doors. Knowing what I know now, I would have showed up, at most, maybe half an hour before the test was scheduled to start.
MPT was first. I used every single minute of time, but I felt like we got fairly easy MPTs, and I felt good. For timing, I set myself a hard deadline at 90 minutes for the first MPT, and treated it as though that part of the test ended once 90 minutes passed. I think this is the move - even if you don’t get to say every single word you want to for the first MPT, you guarantee yourself a full 90 minute block for the second one.
We were told during bar prep to expect an hour break between sections. Our break between sections was actually 3 hours. So, after the MPTs, I went out to my car, called my wife and told her I might actually pull this thing off, ate a granola bar, and watched some JD Advising MEE overview videos on YouTube to prep for the afternoon.
The MEEs kicked my butt. Hard. There were two essays I felt pretty good on, figured I definitely got a passing score on those, may have even pulled a couple 5s if the grader was feeling generous. There was one essay I had absolutely no earthly idea about - couldn’t even pick out an issue. The other three essays were a mixed bag, I felt like I got a couple issues, but screwed up a lot as well. Bar prep will tell you that if you don’t know the rule, make one up. Well, I made up a LOT of rules. (In hindsight, based on the amount of crap I made up and the scores I ended up getting, I think the graders cared much more about the ability to apply a rule to a set of facts, rather than actual knowledge of the correct rules.) With regard to timing, I did the same thing I did on the MPTs - I allotted 30 minutes for each essay, then moved on. If I was getting close to the 30 minute mark for an essay, I just figured out how to wrap that shit up as best I could. I found that as long as I paid attention the the timer throughout, I never really got into a crunch at the end.
Getting something on paper for each essay is CRUCIAL. Anecdote time - a friend from law school accidentally messed up the timing and didn’t write anything for the last essay. He ended up not passing. We mathed out that if he had gotten even a 3 on the essay he skipped, he would have passed the exam. Moral: manage time, and make sure you put some words down for every essay!
Anyway, like I said, I felt like the essays walloped me. I came out of the MEE section 100% positive I failed. There was just too much that I had been unsure of or straight up invented. I figured I had screwed up so bad that it was irredeemable. I was bummed, but I was honestly so mentally drained that I didn’t have it in me to be too upset. Figured I’d show up the next day, ride it out, then apply for some “JD preferred” jobs. (In hindsight, I was too hard on myself here. Remember - you're graded against everyone else, and it's curved. If you think something is really freakin' hard, odds are that everyone else thought it was hard too.)
The next day, I showed up closer to test time. The morning MBE session went ok. I felt like it was about the same as the Themis practice sets. That is, there were still a ton of questions where I had to narrow it down and take a guess, but I knew from bar prep that I should trust that my guesses would generally turn out ok. This was the only section of the bar I finished early, with about 15 minutes to spare.
During the long lunch break, I hung around outside and talked to some friends. It was a nice day. I didn’t bother doing any studying.
The afternoon MBE session felt MUCH harder than the morning. Part of that was probably fatigue, but I do think the questions were harder as well. This didn’t do anything to make me feel better about passing.
I can’t describe the relief I felt when this was all over. Even though I figured I failed, just to have it over with was a massive weight lifted. I decided I wasn’t going to take it again if I failed, so it really felt like it was all over with. (My wife remarked to me and a friend a couple days later, "for a couple of guys who think they failed, you sure seem happy." Yeah...it's like that.)

Post-Bar

Our results were released exactly 5 weeks from the second test day. It was a 47% overall pass rate in NC (63% for first-timers) out of 416 total takers. I was relieved that I passed, but I couldn’t be "happy," exactly. I was, and still am, angry about the whole experience. I won’t go too far down that rabbit hole here, but I will strongly recommend this article, which captures my feelings nicely.
For those interested, my license came 2 weeks after bar results, and I got an email from the NC bar with my bar ID the following day. (Both of these were significantly faster than the NCBLE said they would be.)
I do want to quickly touch on the fact that studying for and taking the bar was the single most overwhelming, disheartening, and depressing thing I’ve ever done. I have never been so consistently miserable and sad as I was during that 10-11 week period. If any of you guys want to vent or need someone to commiserate with, I will happily lend an ear, because I know what this process can do to you.
If you’re feeling crappy and unsure of yourself during this, remember - everyone else is feeling that way too. If you feel like you don’t know enough, like you can't know enough, remember - everyone else is feeling that way too.
Any questions, feel free to ask. Best of luck to you all, I hope every single one of you gets your score.