Author's note: Well, hi there. Nice to see you. I know what I've done. Throw the shoes/tomatoes/whatever, but please, get it over with. That's all I ask of you. I promise to be good from here on out.

Disclaim'd.

"I'VE GOT IT!" proclaimed a previously discombobulated Olive Snook. She climbed on to the chair on which she sat beforehand, and did her victory stance with a countenance that spelled glory.

"Eh." Piped Ned, Chuck, and Emerson, who of which were submersed in their own activities and who also had heard this exclamation at least twenty times that very day.

"You're no fun." Olive gave a pout, and climbed down from the chair and sat back down at it. Her fingers hovered above the typewriter's keys, and she sported an overconfident smile. "Annnnnd… I lost it." She sunk into her chair.

"No duh." Emerson said, not bothering to look up from the Newspaper. "What is that, the hundred-ninth time?"

"Hundred-second, thank you." Olive sighed and leaned back. She clicked her fingers against the green keys of the typewriter, and concentrated on the discouraging, (and rather frightening,) blank piece of paper before her. Olive heaved a sigh, and then slouched in her chair.

The facts are these: Olive Snook's publisher, Mara Brandy, who was forty-three years, two months, three weeks, two days, and twelve hours old, had no clue she was dead, in result of Olive never telling Ms. Brandy who she was, or so Olive thought. However, Mara soon received a rather unexpected letter from Klive O'Soon, who Brandy thought… deceased.

--

Short, but necessary, I guarantee it.