At first he knocked off one or two ficlets a day, but soon he found himself taking short breaks from ficleting to attend to work interruptions. They rushed out, sprang forth, all clamoring to be heard. It was surprising, exciting, and a bit frightening: he didn’t know where they were coming from.
Ficlets were almost the beginning of his dream. But it didn’t turn out that way. The day he turned 59, he woke to a crushing pain in his chest. His wife seemed to understand before he did what was happening. She raced to the phone and called for an ambulance. It arrived, but not soon enough.
In the end, Ficlets were too little, and too late.