fiction about nonfiction

He stuffed the large pale yellow envelope into the rural box, the first of a four part narrative about a gruesome Kansas murder.

Back East in a few days the New Yorker editor's heart pounded, his unsteady hands grasping the manuscript as he devoured the blood-stained prose. The cheap overhead fan spun slowly and his swivel chair squeaked like a closing coffin lid, and he became a mournful small town citizen page after page, reading and re-reading until three a.m.
His empty whiskey glass left a circle on the author's unread handwritten folded note: 'More to come in few days. TC.'

Photo by Shapiro, 1967