Caught in a fraudulent exchange of words, I’d been exposed. An eye-roll here, a scoff there. Soon, the duration of our readings shrunk, and my march toward her heart became a trundle. I tried to make my case. She yawned.
In an effort to reconcile and stimulate our relationship, I introduced her to several new people, all of whom possessed interesting qualities. Still, she walked past me with a sneer, and only occasionally would she sit with me and let me tell her my story.
But what is a story when told in minutes? And what plot—what inciting action—can interest an unwilling reader?
She brought me to her parents, but I never left the dark.
She brought me to the beach, but I never felt a grain of sand between my teeth.
Then, one harsh summer’s day, I found myself on the curb in front of her apartment building. Beside me were the discarded. The desperate ones. How many of them were like me? How many were DNFs?
An orange van with dark windows pulled up, and a man in coveralls stepped out. He took me to his home, to his room—to his bed! He read me from front to back in less than a day; he carried me with him through the good times and bad. He never finished me because he never grew tired of me.
Heya, friends!
No longer do you need to feel bad about the DNF. Some books—some stories—just don’t do it for us, and that’s okay. Give it to someone who might like it. Donate it.
I will DNF for very little. The book you love, I’ve probably DNF’d that shit.
xo Sean
Not me almost tearing up at the book finding a new home, damn I’m soft nowadays
I DID finish your story and, as a matter of fact, read it over about three times. I love the way you personify the unique protagonist, and I was very happy that he found an appreciative home at last. Reading your story makes me want to write something about children's books that get banned and how 'they' feel about it. We'll see.