Excerpted from the beginning of my short story, A Uniform Shade of Red.

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Giving due consideration to the circumstances, Theodore Nathaniel Pendergast died well. He walked the long, dimly lit hall, chatting with his companions about the miserable conditions in the world, late-breaking news events, and traded plain old small talk with them. Even told a couple of jokes. For all outward appearances, one would not have known he was walking his last mile. At least not by the tone and tempo of his conversation. Anyway, that’s what they that last walk, you know—the last mile. Of course, it was not even close to a mile. More like fifty yards. But that’s what they it. The last mile. Who knows why?

When they entered a small room surrounded on three sides by windows with the blinds closed tightly so people could not see the preliminary activities. Theodore walked over to a table. It was an antiseptic-looking thing; all stainless steel with a thin mat and white sheet on top. He laid down without anyone having to guide, force, or help him in any way. His companions said their goodbyes, shook hands with him as he lay on the table, then left. Three of the medical staff in white coats remained.

The doctors went through the motions of preparing him for his injections. There would be three injections. He’d read up on it, so he knew what to expect. They strapped him down to the table and someone, he wasn’t sure who, asked if he had any last words before they continued. Upon asking the question, the blinds snapped open. He rolled his head to the left so he could see through the large windows. On the other side of the glass sat an entourage of folks who had come to see him off. He smiled at them and gave them as much of a farewell wave as he could. He accompanied his wave with a thumbs up sign. It wasn’t much of a wave because of the restraints, but he was sure they recognized it as one, and he knew hardly anyone would mistake his show of a thumb up as representing anything but a positive attitude on his part. He wondered why they bothered to strap him down.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “Words will only prolong what I have awaited for so many years.” Serenity tempered his voice as he continued, “So long everybody. I hope you find a way to fix the world. It’s in a real mess.”

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Theodore Nathaniel Pendergast is my tormented young wannabe author, and the story follows his career as it rises slowly, dwindles, then ends abruptly as self control slips away and is replaced with....