from a novel yet to be finished pt.3

The Morning Hues,January 30th 2026

A/N:
dearest Reader,
i hope you enjoy this
with love
hues

prelude

the editor and the reader sat cozy in the editor’s office. the reader had curled up next to the ever-burning fire and was sleepily watching as the editor skimmed through some old manuscripts. she had probably read that particular novella a hundred times already. the editor had already deemed it completely perfect and ready for print. so, she stimmed with the pages as an attempt at hiding her nervous glancing at the clock on her desk.

the reader was lounging across the bear skin rug, its legs curving into one another. its whiskers and the clear tape holding them onto their glowing fur glinting in the fire light. in one hand they held a glass of 50 proof pure artisan grape juice, and in the other they were scrolling on their spellphone. the reader and the editor were waiting for a visit from the writer.

it had been quite sometime since the three of them had been together. the writer had locked himself away in his apartment at the ego. the reader had visited him a few months back, but he had refused to allow himself to be seen and sent the reader away via dog. the reader was not very fond of dogs. nonetheless, the reader and the editor were delighted to receive the text message that the writer had finally finished his manuscript.

the writer was almost always late for his appointments and so when he stumbled in the door with a flurry of pages twenty-two minutes late, neither the reader nor the editor was shocked. in one hand, the writer carried a thick manuscript;the pages dropping as he rushed toward the desk, and in the other sloshed a vial of ink.

the reader was shocked at their older brother’s appearance. the writer’s body which had been originally white and stained black like the ink that he drank. he looked like a demonic shadow wobbling in front of the desk of his twin. the editor by contrast was a pristine white, her dicky collar pressed and her red tie tied in a perfect windsor. she smiled at her older brother, her eyes creasing generously to make up for her lack of mouth.

in truth, none of the functions really needed a mouth to speak at all. communication was provided by the universe, which would supply subtitles to whomever they were speaking.the reader had never met another function beyond their older siblings, though they assumed that all functions looked alike. they would all have the rounded squishy animal ear like antenna to portray their feelings. they’d all have the same beady little eyes, and soft velveteen bodies which ruffled out above their legs.

maybe they’d come in different colors, like how the writer had become black. or, they would all be like the reader and the editor–white and relant on accessories to help convey their identity. the writer had his pen before he’d changed that helped differentiate himself, the editor their collar and tie, but the reader? the reader had chosen the best identity of them all: a cat. to ensure no confusion of their identity as a cat, the reader had taped pipe cleaners to their face like whiskers, and created a tail from an old pillowcase.

“sorry, i’m late,” the writer burped, dropping the manuscript on the desk. he turned to wobble over to the pages he’d left in a trail behind him. he gathered the loose paper from the ground, and closed the office door. the writer turned again, and made way back to the editor’s desk where he unceremoniously shoved the pages back into the manuscript.

“were those even in the right order?” the editor bitched. she obviously knew they weren’t, and before the writer could even answer she set about reordering the pages.

“why ask, if you already know the answer,” the writer said, taking a swig from his bottle of ink. he waved his hand and conjured an emerald coloured bean bag chair. he sank into the sea of beans with a sigh.

“you’re so sloppy,” the editor said, narrowing her eyes at the black bodied form of the writer, “you could at least come to the meeting sober.”

“i’m sober,” the writer stated, and with the hand holding the ink gestured toward the reader, “reader, i’m sober i promise. i opened the ink on the way up here. and, it’s my first bottle.”

the reader sighed, “i mean, you can’t really expect the writer to take criticism sober, can you?”

“you are way too soft on him, “ the editor said, “you always left him as the exception.”

“he is the talent,” the reader shrugged, scratching the tape on the edge of their whiskers, “just let him cook.”

“see?” the editor seethed.

“see?” the writer chuckled.

“let’s just get on with this,” the editor said, finishing placing the final page back into proper order.

“sure! no problem,” the reader said, jumping onto the editor’s desk. they opened the leftmost drawer and pulled out a blanket. the jumped off the desk and pulled it over to the rug in front of the fireplace. they laid the blanket out neatly and circled a few times before curling up.

“what is this prelude drivel at the beginning?” the editor said, flipping through the pages scanning.

“just a little sprinkle sprinkle,” the writer said, hopping up and rushing over to snatch the manuscript from the editor’s hands.

“hey!” the editor whined, “how am i supposed to follow along?”

“what? you called it drivel, ” the writer said, voice thick with an emotion that the editor couldn’t quite place. the writer shuffled the top pages to the back, “you just start at the first chapter if you don’t like the interlude.”

“trying to get out of edits on the interlude?” the editor said, her left eye scrunching a bit to give the illusion of the right being raised, “ is it that bad?”

the writer laughed, “yes, my writing is so bad that i am lowering myself to get on your good side.” he handed the manuscript back to the editor.

“was that sarcasm?” she asked.

“you can’t tell?” the writer asked.

the editor thumbed through the manuscript.

“all done!” the reader announced on cue. they had rolled themselves up childishly in the blanket making the perfect purrito.

“aw,” the reader and the writer said in unison

“make sure to use a string voice as you read,” the reader snuggled in, and conjured up their teddy bear.

the editor took a deep breath, and began to read.