by Pauline Masurel
He had been writing the stories for some time. He'd even sold quite a few, although this bore no relation to the size of his readership. His distribution method was a bit peculiar to say the least. He wrote the stories with a strange white ink in the margins of the books that he stocked in his second hand store.
Most customers were completely unaware they had purchased an invisible, stowaway story but once in a while someone would bring a book back, hold it under his nose, inviting him to sniff and pronounce it sour. Usually they were right. It was just a little 'off'. Perhaps there was also a tiny hint of garlic within? When you thumbed the pages you could sometimes identify a slight waviness about them and the palest tinge of a greenish hue on the surfaces of his unseen but soothing words.
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