Januariad Post got his leever stitched shut in the prison hospital. The guards had rescued him from the swarm of stories that jumped him in the yard, bleeding black by then and fading from the world.

He’d been reaching eagerly for that white light, put on his shades and everything, but the screws and the medics had other ideas.

Also they had staples and catheters, his blood type is AB negative if you’re interested, and colostomy bags they made right there in the prison.

So the white light turned out to be the fluorescents of the prison infirmary, and he survived violence and disappointment both.

“We’re turnin you loose, Post.” The editor said.

Medical parole, just like that.

“We can’t have fellas turning out punctuation shanks in the prison library anymore, Post. Back to the world with you.” The writer added.

And so there Januariad Post was, back in the world, computers and cell phones and ebooks. Ebooks!

No printed pages for this Post. Who would hire a convicted piece of flash for their Kindles and Nooks? These soft people of electronic letters, they lacked a spine.

He started out bagging groceries but he got fired for hoarding the soap and the magazines in aisle four. Homes and Gardens, for reasons nobody can guess.

Poor Januariad Post, he’s working at Reader’s Digest now, crossing t’s. He could dot the I’s too, but that’s a union job.