It sits and stares.
The spotted pattern, which I thought was ‘nice’ when I bought it, laughs at me from across the table. Its glossy purple circular motif burning a hole in my iris as I strive to carry on, desperately trying to ignore its contents. The sheaf’s of paper contained in this mediocre receptacle are all the returned submission letters from agents and publishers I have received over the years, mocking my in-ability to obtain the golden nugget, the Oscar of literary beings – a book contract.
You messed with the wrong writer, Little Miss Spotty Folder. You may snigger at my beleaguered state of un-contractability (a new word even for me lol) but I will have your cardboard frame in the fire before you can say ‘ha, is that you adding another rejection letter?’. Your black plastic spring will hiss and spit as it burns in the fiery embers of the grate, putting an end to months of torment.
The Folder of Doom will come to an end. Mark my words.