Simon reached forward and grasped a grande Starbucks cup, shook it to no avail, and proceeded to lift and shake three more before finding one that still held some amount of coffee. He took a long pull from the plastic lid before settling back in his chair and projecting an appraising look over steepled fingertips.
"Oh yeah..." He said slowly, his eyes momentarily flicking to his computer screen. He grasped his mouse and did some quick scrolling before beginning to read, "'The four boys were on the other side of the railroad tracks that ran parallel to Taylor Rd., the main drag that tied their neighborhood to several others.' The Forgotten Mile, right? That's you? I skimmed in this morning. Not bad, very 'Stand By Me'." The tone of skeptical - and mildly patronizing - flowed back into his more aggressive tone. "But you know this ain't the Literary Review, right? We don't peddle in fiction here at the Scroll. This is a house of cold, hard fact," his fingertip jammed against the desktop to accentuate each word, "This is journalism, not creative writing."