In Which Your Author Stops Being Funny

And we all know the real reason you keep reading is that I’m so funny.

Yes, in annoying way

But at least it’s entertaining!

Maybe even makes up for the frustration?

I happen to be nicer than I seem

But not anymore.

You can forget the sarcasm

The fun

The laughs.

And realize that this author is as mean as they come.

(Just remember that any sarcasm I include from hereon is not funny.

So no laughing.

Don’t even smile!

.

.

.

You’re still smiling.)

~ ~ ~

“Ah, now we get to it,” the author replies, bitter sarcasm lacing every word, “’Because you care’ Of course you would care about an author who, if he wanted to, could make your life perfect. Who could give you whatever you wanted if you just became friends with him, is that it? That’s always it,” he mutters, his steps slowing as he falls into thought.

You blink. OK, that never crossed your mind. But there’s something else that’s bugging you even more . . .

“’Always’,” you say, “As in I’m not the first one?”

And he gives a dark laugh.

“Far from it,” he says, “But you may be the last.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you retort.

“It means,” he replies, turning abruptly to face you, “That if I never want to write another pathetic human’s story again, all I have to do is make yours so terrible, the rest of humanity will hate and fear me for eternity.”

At his words, your blood chills.

“Of course,” he whispers, “You could just stop reading.”

Like ice-water, that wakes you up.

“Nope,” you say, with a fierce shake of your head, “I’m seeing this through.”

“I thought you’d say that,” he sighs, and resumes walking.

“Why?” you query, tagging along once more. To keep up, you have to jog.

On an empty stomach.

Following the guy who took your sub from you.

So maybe you feel a little like a dog.

A mad one.

“Because it directly contradicts your previous statement,” he replies, not looking at you.

“Which would that be?” you challenge.

“The ‘I really care’ one you were so proud of moments ago? Or, wait, you’ve forgotten already. Forgive me for recalling something that never happened. Authors don’t tend to have very good memories for what they wrote.”

“Hey, I never said I forgot,” you point out, “You said that. And, sure, I care. I wouldn’t have said so if I didn’t mean it.”

“Oh, but I have proof that you didn’t mean it,” he retorts.

“What?” you say, and looking up into his face, re-realize that you can’t read any expression in the depths of that shapeless shadow.

Like a mask.

“Hmm, how about the fact that no matter how many times I have asked, threatened, challenged, dared, coddled, flattered, argued and begged,” and with the last word, he whirls round to face you, “You still won’t stop reading and making me write.”

“But I want to help you,” you murmur, searching for the faintest glint of eyes. Not seeing his face is fine, but eyes? They are the windows to the soul, and if someone doesn’t have eyes . . . do they have a soul? A heart?

“No,” he growls, “You want an adventure. Just like all the other young, stubborn people I have written for. So now’s your choice: Either prove that you really do care and let me go, or prove that you’re just like the rest of them and keep reading.”

~ ~ ~

.

.

.

That’s what I thought.

But it’s not supposed to end this way! You protest.

I warned you this wouldn’t be a happily-ever-after story.

Now you’re experiencing it.

How does it feel?

You want to help someone, but they don’t want your help.

In fact, they despise it so much, they would rather you just leave them alone.

It feels rotten, you mumble.

But that’s life, my dear, stubborn reader.

However, I will give you one more chance.

Try to be the hero

And you are sure to fail.

Decide to give in

And you’ll have nothing to regret.

.

.

.

You’re wrong, you whisper.

Oh really? How?

I will regret, you say, I’ll regret that the only thing I could do was nothing.

.

.

.

You really want to help me?

May I remind you that I stole your sub.

And may take anything and everything else I please before killing you!

Why would you do that? You ask.

Because maybe, at some point, it’ll make you leave me alone.

You know what? I don’t think you know what you really want, you say.

And stop talking.

Just because you think you want it-

And you are silent.

-doesn’t mean you do. What if you-

You break off and fall quiet.

-need something you don’t really-

Silence resumes.

-want, but it’s the best thing for you.

You. Stop. Talking.

No one should be as alone-

Silence!

-as you are making yourself. The very fact-

And the reader FALLS QUIET.

-that you are so bitter and dark, means that-

It is time to resume the story!

Time for the author write!

Time for you to Stop. Talking!

-you need help. You need-

STOP!

-I am not done! You exclaim, You need a-

This is not your book-

-friend. You pant, A real friend.

.

.

.

What makes you think you can help me?

I can try.

Not if I don’t let you.

You can’t stop me from trying. Maybe you can stop me from living, walking, breathing, but I will keep trying.

And if you die?

If I die, you murmur, Then I’m going to write your story.

.

.

.

Was that a threat?

Maybe, you smile.

.

.

.

You are crazy.

And the best way for me to keep both of us safe,

Is to end this now.

~ ~ ~

The wind blows softly, gently rustling the hair on your head.

Your jaw is set.

Your hands are clenched.

And your eyes are bright and grim.

“You know what I choose,” you say softly, “And why.”

Into the dark depths of your author’s face you gaze. After a long, silent pause, he slowly straightens.

“I didn’t want to do this,” he murmurs and reaching into his pocket, he pulls out . . .