…and on the 8th day, micro fiction was published on some dude's blog.

Bitter Roger

Roger was a bitter old man.

Bitter that he’d never achieved the fame and fortune he felt he deserved.

Bitter that he had not achieved said fame and fortune because he had sold the rights to his invention for what seemed like a lot but which, in hindsight, turned out to be a pittance. At the time, he figured the invention was a fad, and cashing out early seemed like the smart thing to do.

It was not, and he was bitter that because of this he was–and probably always would be–a working stiff. He was bitter he wasn’t recognized on the street, wasn’t asked for his autograph, wasn’t touring the country on the corporate motivational speaker circuit.

And he was bitter most of all that he was constantly reminded of all his life was not on the feet of people he saw just about every day, for Roger was the inventor of Velcro shoes, and it frustrated him to no end that he wasn’t still riding that gravy train.



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