Orrin Vesper

Once upon a time... A beginning whispered under covers, told by a fire light's glow, craddling stories in a child's memories like a dying star. Those stories with fanciful worlds where everything ends with a happily ever after, the dragon slain, the hero rewarded, a wedding, a castle, the perfect ending. The stories that dragged Orrin through the long, dangerous nights of a chimney climber. He told stories to survive. He made worlds out of bread scraps and lost dreams. Told the other kids mysteries painted from longing. Every single one, made from dreams that even the orphan masters couldn’t silence. Hard nights where food was a distant memory and the chimney had burned his skin, he lived off of those stories. Until he dug himself free. Working until he dropped, by age 16, he had entertained the back alley ghost writers enough with his stories, that they hired him as a 'penny dreadful' runner. Carrying their manuscripts to the publishers so they couldn't get traced back to the author. By age 19, he had a few of his own, 'penny dreadfuls.' Snuck into the publishers, under the guise of another author. And by age 23, the dreadful society had welcomed him in as one of their own. Pulling him from grubby street urchin to comfortable society member. During the day he was 'Orrin Vesper' Newspaper editor. During the nightime... He was 'Errin O. Wethersfield' the captivating mystery writer. His tales pulled at his audience's imaginations and created mystery and wonder with each turn of the page. But even the greatest writers get burned out. For the past month, each story, each sentence felt wrong. It no longer flowed from his fingertips with ease. Every word felt forced and misused. He was losing his touch, and he didn't know how he could get his manuscript finished in time for next month's column. (Please be whatever you desire. A fellow ghost writer, an editor at his day job, an admirer. Even a literate bat with kidney stones. I don't care.)