Despite this last slight, Max didn’t quit on his old friend. He would laugh remembering the crazy promotion ideas Ellis had devised. Max would visit his grave each week and read one of E. S. Hazard’s best stories as loudly as he could. This often elicited dirty looks, but occasionally, a stranger, there for another reason, would come over and listen and sometime ask about the story being read. Max would have handouts ready with the name of the free story and where to download it from, requesting a review be written in return. Most times his tears were included, for no extra charge. As Hazard had requested in one drunken conversation the two friends had years before, the author’s name was left off the handouts. As Ellis had said at the time, he really did not want to be famous. He just wanted someone to remember his characters or one phrase he had written or just enjoy the story, hoping to divert a reader from their boring or desperate existence, being entertained for a brief moment making their day just a little more bearable. His characters and words were what was important and not the name of the unknown, no-talent writer.

A Writer's Climactic Close