As the other writers escaped, whisked away in literal flights of fancy spewed forth by frenzied pens, a mysterious figure swept towards the table. His long strides brought him gliding along the table now strewn with the missives of exodus.

Eyes twinkling with well-meant mischief, he raised a finger as he passed each brief story. Words attached where no pen touched to the tail of each bit of fiction. Each brought a smile of satisfaction to the stranger’s face.

“Lovely flow to it all. Excellent use of prose.“

“I’m picking up on a lot of anger, though it’s tempered by a sort of resilient theme.“

“Not sure I followed everything, but I could feel the urgency.“

“That’s just wrong, but I appreciate your boldness.“

“Very personal piece. Good job putting yourself out there.“

Each given a sincere rejoinder, he smiled and faded once again into the shadows. His work done. The thoughts conveyed. An experience shared.

“Yes,” he thought to himself, “they will know that THX was here.”