^The Authors’ Atrium

I had a reply on my piece last night. From the one we don’t discuss.

I’ve read it eleven times. I can quote it, and that is not a thing I’m proud of. It features ninety-four words. Five hundred and eighty-five characters. I won’t quote it here, but it remains with me. A mist that hovers at the foot of my bed.

I’m pulling the covers up extra-tight tonight.

Where is he?

No. Don’t tell me. I know exactly where he is, and so does everyone who has ever posted a story over there. He’s in the corner with his concise paragraph blocks ready to drop them on the heads of those who make the effort.

I would like his head on a pike at the gate of this site, with a small sign beneath it that reads Review Pending.

Can I just say that I’m not saying his name either, and I’d like it noted that I’m doing it for purely scientific reasons. I’m not superstitious. I’m just not interested in finding out whether it works.

Hawthorne, you’re not alone. Last spring he told me my humor is a door I keep slamming so nobody can see the room. Since reading that lone remark, I haven’t written a joke I trusted. I’ve written several I didn’t, and those are the ones you’ve been laughing at.

I like him.

Someone has to. Everyone in this thread has been fantastically loud about a man who, as far as I can tell, is the only reader on that board who ever does more than glaze you.

Oh, we get faintly damning praise now and again, but I think we’re all afraid of getting a backdraft if we bring on the breath of genuine criticism.

He told me where my story died. Paragraph thirty-nine.

He was right. I’m not over it, but he was right.

Hawthorne, you’ve read it eleven times. That’s not hurt, that’s study. You’re taking notes.

Poe likes him. Of course he does. What’s not to like, having your innards strewn across the screen for fun and profit?

And I review honestly. I’m not afraid of criticizing anyone.

You’re not angry that he was wrong, Bronte. You’re angry that he’s the only one here who isn’t afraid of you.

And I’ve seen you. Your criticisms are harsh with those you’re already harsh toward. But I also remember some of your dear friends landing utter stinkers while you lost your tongue.

Careful.

I’ll put a word in for being reviewed. He told me my chapters are rungs on a ladder to nowhere. Fair. I’m not climbing toward anything. I’m just very, very good at ladders.

He does keep his remarks short with me. I suppose that’s something.

Bronte, for what it’s worth, if you ever posted a story about a nameless head on a pike and how it got there, I’m all eyes.

Torches down.

Nobody is putting anyone’s head on anything.

Furthermore, he doesn’t read the Gallery.

Hawthorne is going to be perfectly fine. A comment is a comment. It doesn’t get to live in the house with us—or call us from inside of it.

I’ve known him a very long time. Let’s leave it at that.

Louisa, how long is “very long”?

Not in the way you’re thinking.

Thank you, Louisa. I feel slightly better. The tremors have subsided.

I promise to be calm. The pike makes no such guarantee.

I’m sure it’s a very calm pike. You’ve never seen a pike so well-adjusted.

I’ve been through the archives—Salon, Parlor and Lectern. Since the founding of The Atrium, he only has a history of comments, and his only comments are in The Shelf.

He’s never authored a post, only replied.

How?

Hawthorne, you spent a whole evening proving that a ghost isn’t in the room. Congratulations on the séance.

Because he isn’t. Goodnight, loves.

Night, all.

Goodnight.

Night.

No threads. Only comments. Why?