In Which Pointless Attempts are Made to Fix the Unfixable

“That title has got to be record length,” you comment.

Why thank you, it required a great deal of careful, intense thought.

“You know, if that were true, I’d expect it to be shorter.”

Are you saying that only short things can be carefully thought out?

“Well, it’s usually when a person takes time to condense a thought into something short and catchy that-”

Achoo!

.

.

.

“What?”

Something short and catchy. It’s called a cold.

“Oh, thanks a lot.”

You’re welcome.

“Twit.”

Idj.

“What?”

Nothing.

.

.

.

“OK, so maybe you should fill me in on this ‘he’ I’m supposed to be scared of.”

The author sighs.

“Oh, and while you’re at it, how about telling me your story?”

That is irrelevant.

“Yeah, sure, like how I had a sub yesterday was irrelevant.”

That was actually the day before yesterday.

. . .

The reader takes a deep breath, “My parents are probably panicking.”

Nope.

“What?”

When you become an author in the Inbetween, your entire past is reset so that you never existed in the World.

.

.

.

No, the reader leans forward and gasps, No . . .

I warned you.

But you wouldn’t listen.

There has to be a way to get it back! You look around wildly, A door out. A way to turn back time. Wait! If you can make time jump forward, you can turn it back, right?

To turn back time is to undo deeds. This is not possible.

But it wasn’t possible for us to be talking, yet here we are!

. . .

That is different.

How do you know? How can you be so sure? I have to get back home!

The author’s eyes narrow.

And so we see what you’re really made of.

What?

Don’t think for one moment I was duped by the “but I want to help!” charade. I knew you would do this. You said you wanted to help – you’ve come, and now I’m not alone, but as soon as you learn that you have lost your past, you want to leave me. You really are as selfish, fickle, foolish, arrogant-

“SHUT UP!”

The reader starts and stands, fists clenched.

“I’ll bet you wanted to go back home when you got stuck here! I’ll bet you were so desperate that the first book you wrote was actually you trying to get home!”

.

.

.

.

.

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The first four books.

And in the fourth, I ruined someone’s life.

It is not worth it to try and return.

You’ll never get back.

The only way out, is through the Vale.

“I don’t want to die,” you shake your head, biting back tears, “Not yet. There’s so much I want to do. Why did I ever come here?”

.

.

.

I’m sorry.

“What do you mean?”

I shouldn’t . . . I was a hypocrite. I’m sorry, it’s my fault.

“What? No, you tried to stop me.”

No, I looked like I was trying to stop you, and all I did was bait you with reverse psychology. I brought you here. I knew what I was doing. I knew you were contrary from the moment I met you, and I used that to bring you here.

“But why?”

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.

.

Hope. Despair. A cruel, bitter mixture of both which made me think maybe you were the one, and if you weren’t I’d punish you.

The author’s teeth grind.

I

Hate

This.

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry . . .

“It’s OK.”

No, it’s not. I tricked you. It is anything but OK, and . . .

“And what?”

I know I’m going straight to hell,

When this is over;

It’s where I belong.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Stop

Pitying

Me!

I am NOT worth it!

“No one is!”

Fine

Then I am worth loathing.

And I will give you the key to revenge.

“What?”

The only a way an author can move out of the Vale into whatever path is beyond –

For me hell –

Is if their book be burned by the reader.

.

.

.

Thank you.

Anytime.

And, really, anytime.

I’m ready.

No, as in, thank you.

The reader smiles sadly

Now I know one way to keep you safe.

What?

“William,” you shake your head, “I’m not going to burn your book. I’m not going to take revenge, because I don’t need it. I don’t want it. This is just as much my fault as yours. We were both stupid and selfish, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t time to fix it – to fix everything. I’m not ready give up on my story, or on yours.”

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You’re something else, Jess.

And the reader waits for the punch-line.

The author chuckles.

Maybe not this time.

Maybe?

Yeah, maybe.

The reader smiles and looks around.

“You ready to fix this?”

The author shrugs.

Sure.

After all, you desperately need a make-over.

“Whoa, hold on, who’s talking about make-overs?” you shake your head, “Mr. I’m-so-black-you-can’t-see-my-face.”

But mine is the perfect make-over.

Simply

Flawless.

The reader snorts.

“More like one big flaw.”

Depends on your perspective

“Here we go agai-”

Which happens to be much less experienced than mine.

“OK, but seriously, we can’t banter into eternity.”

Eh, we could.

It would be

-

Sarcastically

Tickling

Unmatchable

Perfectly

Intriguing

Dumb and-

“Saw that.”

Saw what?

“The first letter of each word spells ‘stupid’.”

Oh, what a coincidence!

“Yeah right.”

Shall we get started?

“With what?”

Your education.

The reader pulls a wry face

“Bring it on.”