When Preisczech stuck his head into Halycon Sage’s little writer’s lair, he was grinning all over his face, which was not like him. He held out a ragged collection of pages, smudged and dirty, as if from long travel. But the paper was violet, and it reeked of some ungodly perfume. There was a Cover (elaborately drawn), a Title Page, a Dedication Page, and an Afterward.
Sage took the thing in his hand. Of course, as founder of the Post-Modernist Minimalist Neo-Symbolist Pseudo-Realist School of Literature, he was not surprised to have imitators. One writer does not make a school, after all, and the branching of the authors into different genres was not surprising either. It was the nature and quality of these writings that appalled him. Sage cut to the chase, finding the new minimalist novel buried among the pretentious and superfluous pages.
From the Heaving Bodice Romance Division of the Post-Modernist Minimalist Neo-Symbolist Pseudo-Realist School of Literature
by Deandra Hollendaise
Her hair was orange as flame, and no one could tell her what to do. Her rich uncle was as tight as her corset. The dark stranger across the way was interested only in his horses. Velveeta sighed. “When will I find the man who can make me melt?”
Halycon Sage buried his face in his hands.