Fragments from books that don’t exist

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Maven was another incompetent telepath and Mr. Harvin was sick of it. Why can’t I find a fucking mind-reader who can actually read minds? he thought but didn’t say out loud. The interview was being videoed, and if he knew one thing it was that his superiors were hiring every half-assed telepath they could find. It didn’t matter to them if the psycho only got it right one tenth of the time. It was better than nothing, right? No, he would nearly scream in these meetings. It is NOT better than nothing. It is WORSE than nothing. Nothing would be better than nothing, he would babble incoherently. But it wasn’t up to Mr. Harvin, and here he was sitting in the plastic room surrounded by the plastic ferns and the woman applying for the job and trying her best to read his mind.
“You are thinking of a parakeet,” she guessed.

I am thinking of puking, he thought, and I guess that shares some of the same consonants. Out loud he said, “and now?”

“Christmas,” she smiled, imagining she could see decorations bopping around inside his skull.

“Next?” He was flipping through index cards and pretending to be thinking of what he saw on them, but they were all blank.

“Garage doors,” she stated with conviction.

“And now?” Mr. Harvin was thinking about going home, or throwing someone out a window, or eating a banana split, or mowing the lawn, or anything but sitting there in that room right then and there.

“Ice cream,” Maven nodded with her eyes closed.

“And bananas,” she added. “Delicious.”

Harvin looked at the meeting room window and wondered if it opened from the inside.

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