Dear Wigleaf,

Why don't you ever return my calls? Has fame gotten to your head? We used to be pals, but those days seem long gone, nigh apocryphal. The other night I saw you in the bar, holding court with a bevy of blonde debutantes. You spotted me across the room and smacked your hand a few times with your fist, like some thug. Hey, I got the message. I'm not stupid, Wigleaf, despite the fact that you liked to say so from time to time when we were still on speaking terms.

Nevertheless, maybe you sometimes wonder what's going on with me. Well, honestly, Wigleaf, it's surprising how little has changed.  I sit in this office room a lot, among my books and guitars and records, pecking away on my laptop.  I write a line, delete it, try to write it again, delete that, check my email, repeat. Once in a while I say, "Ow, my fucking neck." To my back, through the windowed door, is the backyard rose garden, colors ablaze in the Florida heat. Lots of hummingbirds and cardinals. Once in a while a fat June bug thumps into the glass and I spin around in my ergonomic chair, startled, thinking someone's trying to break in. I curse it, turn back around, write a line, delete, repeat. See, not much has changed, Wigleaf, and you know what? For one of the first times in my life that's just fine.

Formerly Yours,


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Thomas Cooper is a PhD candidate in the creative writing program at Florida State and has fiction forthcoming in Lake Effect, Beloit Fiction Journal, Bayou, Underground Voices, and Opium, among other places. His work has been nominated for a 2008 Pushcart Prize.

Read TC's story, "The House at the End of the Street."

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