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Morning had already arrived when Tony decided to slide out of bed. His arm lazily flopped over to the right side of the bed; he pushed himself up, and crawled off the king-sized mattress.
“The smell of bacon finally get you out of bed?” His fiancé smiled at him from the frying pan she was holding over the stove, as he walked into the kitchen.
“What time is it, Em?” He asked.
“Just about quarter till ten.” Em flipped the bacon and pressed it with her spatula, it sizzled in the pool of grease. “Coffee?”
“No thanks,” he scratched his head. Em was wearing yoga pants and a tank top. The tank top hugged her curves perfectly, as did the yoga pants. Her strawberry blonde hair was tied back in a sloppy ponytail, and her hair fell into her eyes as she dumped the bacon onto a plate.
Em giggled as Tony crept up on her and put his arms around her waist. He kissed her lovingly on the cheek, and snatched a piece of bacon off of the plate.
“Hey! That’s mine, you little pig!” She laughed, and smacked his arm.
“Not anymore,” he smirked as he stuffed it in his mouth. Changing the subject, he asked, “Oh, did any mail come for me?”
“Of course, we get packages daily, you know that. I put them in the dining room under the buffet.”
“Thanks, Emmy.” Tony poured himself a glass of orange juice, and sat down at his computer. He clicked the email button, and waited for the old computer to finally open up the page. Em came over and tussled his uncombed hair.
“I have to be at work in 45 minutes, I’m going to shower and go. Love you.” She bent over and kissed him, and he watched her skip upstairs. Her head peeked back around the corner of the stairwell a couple seconds later, and she said, “Oh, if any chocolate covered anything’s come in the mail, save it for me, okay?” She giggled and ran back upstairs.
Tony scrolled through his emails. Being in charge of the worlds most popular publishing company was stressful, but it came with benefits as well. Young hopefuls sent in story after story, and gift after gift to try to win him over. He received roughly three hundred fifty emails at the least per day, and at least fifteen packages to the company building full of gift cards or chocolates, something that writers would hope boost the potential of becoming a published author.
As he went through emails, deleting and deleting, one subject heading caught his eye. Instead of the usual “desperate, please read,” or, “package being mailed shortly,” this one was just titled the writers name, “Rose Alistair”. Interested, he opened the email, and he read:
Dear whoever is reading this,
My name is Rose Alistair and I am fifteen years old. I recently finished perfecting a four hundred sixty seven paged novel called “The Razor’s Edge”. It’s about the struggles teens like myself deal with in modern day times; mainly struggles adults are oblivious to. I believe my work is different than other writers work, and I would greatly appreciate it if you could take the time to read it. My phone number is 770-867-5309. I won’t send any chocolate or flowers, sorry.
Aw, no chocolate, Tony thought. He was surprised with the girl’s confidence, and was oddly fond of it. It would do great things to the company to publish a fifteen-year-old author, so he opened the attached Word file, and began to read.
Four o’clock rolled around, and Tony was on the edge of the computer chair with bloodshot eyes and dilated pupils. Rose Alistair had written one of the most captivating and cunning stories he had ever read in his entire life. She had used industry standard format, had perfect conventions, and had the most intriguing plot to put in a story. The sentences flowed perfectly together and the detail was phenomenal; Rose Alistair had Tony completely wrapped around her finger. As a fifteen-year-old writer, the girl had the writing abilities of Stephen King.
At six thirty, Tony had just finished reading the last bit of the story. He immediately grabbed the phone, and punched in the number from the email exactly.
“I’m sorry, the number you are trying to call does not exist.”