“What are you—“

“SHHH SHHH!” The blond kid placed a finger on his lips. Don’t. say. a. Word.”

Milo gulped. He inched back in his chair.

“Okay…” whispered the short-haired brunette, who had carefully drawn the curtains. “I think it’s safe to talk.”

“TALK? WHO ARE YOU KIDS? WHERE AM I?”

“_Dude! Take a chill pill. _Do you want her looking for you?” Kid number 3 near the door hissed.

“Who? You there, curtain girl! Mind telling me what’s going on?” Milo did not like being bossed around by kids. What were they? Fifteen? Sixteen?

“First, it’s _Avery.” _She got off the bed, “Second, call me by that name again and I won’t hesitate to carve your pretty face with my kni—“

“Alright folks!” The blond kid clapped his hands, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m Will. Short for William. And that’s my friend, Alex.” He motioned towards the door kid, “and this hothead over here is my lil’ cousin, Avery.” He flashed a big grin, “and you are?”

“Milo… Milo Pierce…”

“Nice to meet y’a!” He shook his hand.

Milo had to admit. This kid had a strong presence. “But that doesn’t answer my question. Where am I?”

“You’re in headspace.” Alex came over and propped his elbow over Will’s shoulder, shaping his hands like he was holding an invisible box, “Inside the author’s mind.”

Milo stared at him as if he just spoke gibberish. “what?”

“In simple words, My room.” said Avery. “And you’re probably here because the Author has imagined you.”

“Oookay?”

“And she’ll be looking for you if she gets an…idea.” Her expression went grim. She silently plopped over the bed.

“Hearing that The Author is looking for you is enough to make grown adults cry.” Alex shared her darkness, “You never know who or _what’ll come next _in the headspace.

Milo shuffled in his chair. He wanted to get out of the headspace.

“Buut it can go either way.” Will added. “As for you though…” Will sized him up with his stormy grey eyes. “Can’t say… you look different.”

“He doesn’t look like he’s from our story.” Alex scratched his head, “…could be a crossover scene…Hey, Milo. What’s your genre?”

“My what now?” He really wished he could whip out a dictionary to understand Alex. Avery looked like she’d gladly hit him with it.

“What’s your specialty?” She translated, “Do you have any… powers?”

“Or fighting skills,perhaps?” Will rubbed his chin, “Your fancy dagger there seems to know somethin’.”

Milo looked at the curvy dagger at his belt. It’s edge shone, as if waiting to be showed-off.

“Yeah I can fight…” Milo said, letting everything settle in. “Oh! I can do this too!”

He snapped his fingers and a swirl of purple vortex tore open behind them.

Avery’s jaw hit the mattress “No. Way…”

“This is cuh-ray-zee!” Her cousin ran his hand through his hair.

“WOAHHH!” Alex held is head, “Where does this lead to? Is it dangerous? Can humans go through that?”

He looked like he’d explode any minute

“Actually—“

“CAN I GO THROUGH THAT?” He jumped into his face so close, Milo could see his own reflection in his eyes.

“No!”

He waved his hand and just like that, the portal closed, sealing away any hope Alex had to explore it.

“Aww, man!”

Legend has it that The Author can make you vanish, just like someone rubbing an eraser against pencil writing. Others say it can make people forget who they are, and become someone else entirely. The Author is like a god of sorts, doing as they please with little regard for peoples’ lives. They can cause pain, happiness, sadness, you name it. Perhaps that’s what makes it so fearsome - the not knowing what to expect.

So you had better be sure you get your story right the first time, or else The Author will surely be looking for you.

It’s been a while since she’s been here. It was a surprise today when she showed up.

She was dressed simply today. A sweatshirt and shorts. She didn’t need anything more for today. Her wings hung limply, dragging in the sand behind her.

She came and stood next to me while I looked out over the beach, off to the horizon in the distance. A single tear traced down her cheek.

“i had an awful day today, so i came to see you. you always know how to make me feel better, dont you?” She chuckled drily.

“im sorry. im sorry im sorry im sorry. i try to keep it up i do and i never can. and yet youre always here. i don’t deserve you but I love you so much and youll never know.” Her voice was soft, and so unlike her.

I gathered her in the biggest hug I could manage. I could never touch her really, but it’s her head. Here we can.

She leans into it and sobs into me. As she said, I’ll always be there for her. She’s my Creator, and for that I owe her everything. And I love her only as her Creation can.

We sat like that for a long time, me holding her, staring out at the sea. Content.

—-

She was back the next day, and back to her usual self.

She bounded up to me while I was reading. She was wearing jewel toned adventurers garb, a leather messenger bag over her shoulder. Her hair was pulled back in a small braid. She looked radiant again.

“Come on come on come on!!! We still gotta find you a ship!!”

Her grin was infectious. I sighed, but smiled. She needs to get a love life of her own.

She grabbed my wrist and pulled me along as the world disintegrated behind us and we fell through to another world of her imagination.

I sat at the pier, aimlessly bouncing my legs through the cool water.

The day was always cloudy here, but the nights were crystal clear, enough stars to finally understand how miniscule one was in the universe.

A tiny fish ran past my toes and I smiled, relishing the small moments.

As she stepped into my sight, she was held momentarily in shadow by the lanterns on the posts.

She looked majestic: Hair black as night, kept short and flowy. She wore a dress that appeared to be made of pure starlight, open at the back to reveal a pair of magnificent crow feathered wings. Cold eyes of a brown so dark they were black, but warm and honey colored in the lantern light. Those eyes hid secrets and wisdom, and the mind behind could create and destroy worlds at whim.

Of course, that’s where we were right now.

Naturally, this was only a moment before she ran up to me, a wickedly playful grin upon her face, wings spread wide for balance. Clumsy one, she was.

“Wonderful! You’re here. We can get started. I think we’re going to work backstory today.” Her tone was playful, as if my life weren’t about to be utterly changed by this. Her smile was infectious though, and there was something compelling about this girl. I would die for her. She might one day decide I will do just that. I don’t think so though - if anyone, it would be the other Creator who did so.

She ran right off the pier with a flap of her wings for a boost and a jump through the sky. Disappearing under the surface with barely a splash, I had no choice but to follow as the world behind us started to disintegrate and the new one formed. Sliding in, I hardly disturbed the stars reflected on the surface before we were gone, through to another world.

—-

Today she found me sitting in a clearing in the woods, fireflies flitting about while the waves crashed in the background. The trees were deep shades of emerald and teal, a great contrast to the galaxies above. It’d been two days since she was here.

She was dressed in combat gear this time - a deep blue jacket, leggings, a turtleneck tank and boots. She had a sword at her side and a knife strapped to her thigh. I chuckled. If it was her head we were in, she might as well wear what she wants.

With a dramatic drawing of her sword, she pointed at me. Raising my hands in mock surrender she spoke.

“Get up. We’re gonna plan a fight scene for fun today.” Chuckling, I got to my feet. I missed this side of her. It had been a while.

She tossed me a sword by the hilt.

“En garde, mon ami. ….Dammit I forgot how much I hate French.”

The swords clanged, metal on metal singing the song of the blade as the world around us slowly disappeared.

—-

It had been a few days since I last saw her. I was laying on the roof tonight when she walked up.

Tonight she had fashioned herself in something that you would find a faerie wearing, colors of the deep sky, simple and stunning. Her wings were spread wide, backlit against the moon

“Hey!” She called when she approached. “Come with me.” A mischievous smile stretched across her lips, and one couldn’t help but think something wonderful was about to happen when they saw it.

She didn’t acknowledge the fact that her visits were getting more infrequent, so neither did I.

She led me through the house, twisting hallways a maze. When we finally arrived, she opened the door with a flourish. “I thought an outfit change would be nice.”

Inside were racks and racks of clothing. I sighed with a chuckle as she pulled out a sketchbook and pencils and waited expectantly for me to start trying things on. “Go on, I need to see what looks best! Try this first. OH and we’re so doing a formalwear arc.”

—-

(dang ran out of word space I’ll make a part two)

Hearing that ‘The Author’ is looking for you is enough to make grown adults cry, a known fact for us that seams to confuse some people. It’s probably because they’re outsiders. Outsiders may believe ‘The Author’ sounds like someone who spends all their day writing, but to us, it’s much, much more than that.

The Author is our creator, our controller. They’re powerful, dangerous, and cruel. If they are looking for us, we might as well be dead.

Outlaws, villains, or even people who tripped up, fall into The Author’s hands. Once they’re caught, we never see them again. Although at midnight next to the empty prison, we hear screams.

Maybe it’s the screams of the dead, or maybe they aren’t as dead as we think. Only they know the truth.

Marla is staring across the room at Richard as he sniffs the newest glass of wine that’s been set in front of him. This is the second winery he’s been in today. He doesn’t notice her trying to get his attention. This doesn’t surprise her. After thirty eight years of marriage, nothing he does phases her anymore. Not his liver cancer he beat four years ago, or this impromptu, impulsive cruise trip to Italy. She pulls her hair off of her neck, clipping it up with a barrette from her purse. She pulls on her peach-colored blouse and it peels away from her chest like a second skin. Oblivious to those seated around the bar, she stands with her shirt pulled open, absorbing the manufactured cool air on her chest.

Richard promised her that he would try better to monitor his drinking this time. She glances at the line of empty glasses in front of him, shaking her head before heading out through the double doors into the fresh air. The sidewalks are bustling with prospective tourists. Some of them she recognizes from the cruise ship. She can see Richard joking with the balding man on the stool beside him through the front window. His hand is gripping the bar’s edge, so it’s clear that he’s buzzed.

Glancing down, the muscles in her arms feel strained against the weight of all the shopping bags surrounding her. The various window displays across the street are beautiful. A pink building showcases various perfumes, on an aged wooden table. Fresh flowers placed inside vases add pops of color to the glass containers. Gray metal buckets overflow with fresh flowers on the outskirts of the front door. Oddly enough, it reminds her of her mother-in-law’s garden back in Massachusetts. She makes a mental note to stop in before they get back on the ship.

If it were up to Marla, she would be on a plane right now. She would go back to their home and begin packing up her life into the banana boxes that she has saved in the basement.

It’s been eight months since Marla’s world shattered. She was making herself a late night martini, when she heard Richard come in well after midnight. His tie wasn’t slanted and his shirt was tucked in perfectly. From her view across the kitchen’s island, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He came up beside her, kissing her with a passion she hadn’t felt from him in years. That was how she knew.

This trip was meant as an elaborate apology. She had met Richard decades ago when she picked up a shift as a waitress at the local pub. He was charming and continued to pursue her for the rest of the night. That continued for the next two years. He had been previously married, but explained that it was young love and he was naive and that he hardly counted it as an actual marriage -it only lasted for six months. When he proposed to Marla, he promised her that he was sure about her and that he was ready to be a real married man.

Taking a seat underneath a shade tree, Marla’s careful not to disturb the man sleeping on the other end. A silent tear rolls down her cheek and she’s quick to swipe it away. Taking a quick glance at the man beside her, she notices his gray beard and how it helps to mask the hollowness of his face. He reminds her of Rip Van Winkle.

She pulls out her phone from her purse, responding back to the messages her children left her this morning.

‘Be safe!’ ‘Have a great time!’ The last message was from her oldest daughter. The one who truly knows how unhappy she is. ‘Call if you need anything.’

The same intrusive thought enters her mind again as she responds to each message. Looking at the newest photo of her grandson that her middle daughter sent her, Marla wonders what her life would’ve been like if she’d never gotten married and become a mother.

Would she have been happier? Marla’s palms begin to sweat, creating greasy smudges on her otherwise pristine screen.

“Ma’am? Are you alright?” The man’s voice is as coarse as his beard and she can feel the wood moaning as he sits himself upright. Marla nods as another tear slides down her face. She expects to be asked if she’d like to talk about what’s bothering her and is relieved to be met with silence instead.

“Marriage is hard.” He says it the same way Marla’s marriage counselor said it during their first session. Marla can’t see a wedding ring on the man’s finger, nor can she see a faint line of lighter skin. “The author has been looking for you, you know. He received your letter.” Marla’s lips quiver as she shuts her eyes, oddly feeling embarrassed and exposed.

She had seen the ad in the paper months prior, before Richard cheated. A simple gray and white box hidden amongst the rest of the classified ads. Someone proclaiming to call themselves ‘The Author’ could give you a do-over. All that was required was an explanation. That night, under the lonely glow of the kitchen light, she sat and wrote out everything she hated about her marriage. The anger and hurt inside of her erupted, and her words followed.

Leaning in, Marla’s voice cracks as she asks “Are you…” she gestures to him and he smiles. “No,” he whispers. “I’m just the messenger.” He pulls out a crumbled slip of paper from his corduroy pants and hands it to her, giving her a nod that feels like their private secret.

After he’s long out of sight, Marla unravels the paper. She doesn’t recognize the address and instead searches it on her phone. It directs her to a green patch that seems to reveal nothing. Putting her phone away, Richard steps out, squinting out into the crowds, clearly looking for Marla and clearly oblivious to her sitting quietly on the bench.

He sits down beside her, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. He digs into the largest shopping bag at her feet, pulling out the sweater she bought for herself. The cream fabric felt like silk in between her fingers when she held it against herself in the boutique’s mirror. The shop owner convinced her that the pearls sewn around the collar paired beautifully against the creaminess of her own skin.

Something about the way Richard balls it back into the bag, makes her stomach twist. She can practically feel his frustration seething just under the surface. He folds his arms, looking straight out across the street. “Nice sweater.” His tone is like ice. “Did you enjoy the samples?” She asks. He nods and tells her about all the bottles he purchased.

She thinks about confronting him there in the moment. It was a tactic that her therapist instructed her that she needed to work on. ‘You need to deal with it in the moment, Marla’ her therapist would say over her clipboard.

Instead, Marla keeps quiet. She gives Richard another look, studying each of his features. His eyes are closed and she can smell the sweet hints of cinnamon each time he exhales. She thinks about the triumphs they’ve shared together. She loves her three daughters more than life itself. They help her in forgetting the daily struggles she endures with Richard.

Taking a finalizing breath, she stands up, leaving all of the bags at her feet, pulling out the sweater and holding it to her chest. “Have you made any other plans for today?” He wipes his nose on the edge of his thumb and shakes his head. “Probably just take the cases of wine over to the ship and then take a nap. Why? Do you have plans for us or-“ Marla shakes her head. “No. But I think I’m going to go out and-“ the words lodge themselves in her throat, giving her one final opportunity to change her mind. “-find myself.” Richard seems completely disinterested, smashing his lips against her cheek before heading back inside the building.

Marla hails a taxi and takes one final look at her husband, until he fades from her view. The fresh air invigorates her soul as she stares out at the endless vineyards. The address she’d given the driver didn’t seem to phase him in the slightest. Maybe this address isn’t just an empty patch of land? A few minutes later, the gravel crunches under the tires and an extravagant home peers out from behind the forest of trees.

The house appears even larger from here, with its wrap-around porch and extravagant landscaping. The inside of her cheek is bloodied and sore from all the indecision she’s feeling. As she turns back down the front steps, the front door opens. A older man who couldn’t be much taller than her oldest granddaughter stands. He says nothing to her and she instead focuses her attention on the wisps of smoke rising from the pipe hanging from his lips.

“It’s alright Marla, you can come in.” She nods and steps inside. The extravagance outside was a stark contrast compared to the bareness inside. Most of the rooms appear bare, with the exception of an occasional lamp and table. He leads her to a room with a large mahogany desk sitting in the center. She takes a seat across from him, unsure if she should be the first to speak.

“Are you happy Marla?” He blows out his pipe smoke through his nose as he stares at her. She shrugs. “I don’t know.” His eyebrows raise and he pulls out a sheet of paper with scratched penmanship. “This letter didn’t sound like it was coming from someone who wasn’t sure.” He slides the paper across the desk and Marla leans in, noticing the stains her tears left scattered across the page. “Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to have gone a different route.” She admits. He nods. “What would you have changed?” Marla thinks about his question for a long time, before sharing her dreams of traveling and owning her own boutique; the dreams she’d shoved away and forgotten about. The man never interrupts her and let’s her take her time when the words get stuck in her throat. By the time she finishes, her face is wet again. She isn’t sad. She’s angry at herself. “I get a lot of letters, you see.” Her eyes follow to the stack of papers he has in a pile in the corner of the room. “People asking me for a second chance, people unhappy and asking for a do-over.” He shrugs. “Most of them are young and I ignore their requests. They have their whole lives ahead of them, where they will inevitably make more mistakes. I can’t come in and fix every little issue they’ll have.”

His words remind Marla of a speech her own mother had given her when she was young and foolish. Back when her dreams were endless, and Marla didn’t care how ridiculous they sounded. Back when she felt passion and life.

“I can help you.” He goes across the room to his bookshelf, grabs a thin stack of papers and sets them in front of her. ‘FINAL DECISIONS’ is written in large print at the top of the paper. Underneath, paragraphs have been compiled out of her letter - traits that Richard has that she secretly hates, the way his decisions impact her life, and the lack of awareness or compassion he seems to show Marla. Seeing it all in front of her again, makes the idea of returning to her life an impossibility.

“I go by ‘The Author’ here. I possess the ability to give you a do-over, but only if that’s what you want.” She closes her eyes, memories of her daughters sprouting all over. She wants a fresh start, but can’t fathom doing it without them. The Author gives her a gentle smile. “They’ll still be with you.” He pauses. “They just won’t remember who Richard is.” Marla turns to the last page, where a blank line awaits her signature. “What happens if I sign this?” He chuckles. “Well, the reflection in the mirror won’t exactly change. Your memories however, will.” “Will Richard’s?” She asks. He nods. “Like two strangers.” “My daughters?” “No change.”

Marla stares at the golden-tipped calligraphy pen laying on the table for a long time, before picking it up and signing her name across the blank line. “What happens now?” She asks. The Author picks up the stack of documents, grabs a match from inside his desk and lights it on fire. Bright blue sparks jump off the paper. She notices that the paper is taking far longer than normal to burn into ash.

“When this paper finishes burning, it’ll take effect. You two will be strangers again.” The paper is half burnt now. “What if I make the same mistake again?” She asks. “I won’t remember how horrible my life with him was.” “You won’t remember Richard exactly. But you’ll recognize his type, don’t you think? Besides, you’re older now than you were then.” Marla stares at what little paper remains. In a few seconds, her life will forever be changed. “Go after what you want, Marla. This is your life.”

After the taxi returns Marla back to the front of the winery tasting building, she takes in the salt water and fresh air. She pulls out a cream sweater from her purse and slips it on, admiring her reflection in the glass windows. She can feel her phone vibrating and there on the lock screen is a photo of her youngest daughter with her boyfriend, the message captioned ‘I said yes!’

Inside the winery, she steps up and sits next to a balding man who appears to be in his late fifties. A box sits beside him on the tabletop. His eyes meet hers and he gives her a charming smile. “You like to drink?” He slaps his hand on top of the box. “I’ve got more than enough to share. This is my second case. I’ve got another one on the ship, if you’re interested.” There’s something in his words that charms Marla. She gives him a laugh, tilting her head back. When she regains her composure, she stares back at him, taking in his face. She takes a deep breath. “You know what…I’m good.” He shrugs and lugs his case with him out the front door.

Twisting on her stool, Marla looks out at the groups of tourists coming in, laughing and giving her polite smiles as they pass her by.

She can’t place it exactly, but something in her chest feels…free.

Tristan St. James had grown to rely on two things: His wits and his movie star jawline. He was at the end of the former; the latter was the only card he had left to play as he flirted with the small town diner waitress.

“I understand that the berry cobbler here is a must have.”

Madge stopped chomping her Dentyne long enough to give the handsome stranger a smile. “It’s the second-best thing you’ll find in this place.”

Tristan returned the smile. She was maybe twenty years older than he, wearing orthopedic shoes and the traditional white-on-blue uniform that looked like it might have fit better thirty pounds ago. She spoke with the raspy confidence of someone familiar with both unfiltered Marlboros and last calls. ‘You aren’t going to marry her, you just need her car and enough money to get to Portland,’ he reminded himself.

“You want me to throw a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side for you? Makes all the difference.”

He winked and said, “Absolutely.”

“You keep lookin’ at me like that and you might just get an extra scoop.”

Tristan wanted to shower. His hair smelled of smoke and, ironically, Electric Youth perfume. (“It was on sale. Debbie Gibson. Do you like it?” He had lied.) No time to get cleaned up, though, he needed to get out of town as soon as possible. Silently, he took the night’s tips from Madge’s wallet, along with the keys to her Chevy Celebrity, and stuffed them into his Jansport. He could hear her snoring in the next room, the whole operation almost coming to an abrupt end when the screen door almost slammed shut, saved only by a quickly placed and now-throbbing finger.

Tristan opened the car door and put the keys in the ignition, shifting it into neutral so he could silently push it a half block or so down the road before hopping in and turning it over. The mid-sized 4-cylinder might have been an F-14 for as loud as it seemed in an otherwise silent early morning in that tiny coastal town.

He let himself feel only the slightest hint of relief for the first time in nearly 36 hours as he saw the bridge out of town off in the distance. He had been so careful, so calculated. Everything had been planned down to the smallest detail; He’d played it over and over in his head, changing things, adding variables, adapting. Nothing had been left to chance. The only way they would even know what to look for was if the poison was suspected. But how could it be?

He had committed the perfect crime.

Or so it seemed, until that damn woman stuck her nose where it didn’t belong. That geriatric biddy who started asking all the questions, probing all over town.

Ironically, she was supposed to be out-of-town. That’s what had been in the local newspaper. She was supposed to be heading to New York for yet another honor. She was supposed to be handing off her latest manuscript to her publisher. She was supposed to be gone!

But no.

She had stayed home. Her nephew Grady had gotten into some kind of jam and she had to get him out of it.

And now Tristan was in a stolen car desperately trying to get out of his own jam.

He knew that she was trouble. He’d seen the reports on local and national news. He was well aware of how just the mere mention that the English teacher-turned-novelist was looking for you was enough to bring full-grown men to tears.

But not him.

It had been close, but he had done it. He had escaped under the wire. He just had to cross the bridge out of Cabot Cove and never look—

Uh oh.

The red and blue gum ball lights took turns filling the interior of the Chevy. He thought briefly of turning around, driving back into town, but backup units had closed in.

They had him.

He stopped the car, opened the door, and got out with his hands up.

It took the sheriff and his entourage only a few moments to close the distance, his hand on the butt of his revolver. With a too-thick New England accent he looked the man up and down with the lazy confidence of someone who had dealt with much worse and said, “Tristan St James, you are unda arrest for the MURda of Martin Van Nostrum.”

The sheriff nonchalantly motioned to his deputies to take over the actual work of arresting the suspect. Tristan raised his arms, eyeing the septuagenarian sleuth.

“How did you know?”

She met his gaze and politely stated, “Well, you see, it all came down to your gum.”

“My gum?”

“Yes. It would seem that you have a most peculiar habit of folding your gum wrappers into these fascinating little origami birds.” Here she produced a small, folded silver wrapper in the shape of a crane. “I remembered that you had mentioned you spent some time in Japan. And, well—“

Tristan decided to finish the story for her, not giving her the satisfaction. “And you connected the blowfish poison to my time as an apprentice sushi chef.”

“She did enDEED, Mr St James. And thanks to Mrs Flethcha heer, you’ll have plenty a-time to perfect serving that raw fish—I’m guessin’ about 50 years-to-life.”

“Liberate yourselves,” they told us after they left us huddled in the muddy shack.

We clung to each other, only concerned with the immediacy of keeping warm as the endless rain pelted down outside.

We slept awhile, fitfully delirious, and when we awoke a new dawn had broken it’s silvery rainbows all across the land.

We had all come so far the past few days and we had no idea where we were or how we’d ever get home.

But written in the mud with a stick outside was a message. It said: “The Author is looking for you.”

We searched each other’s eyes for answers. The tallest of us had tears in his eyes. Others looked concerned. Some looked around fearfully. The last time any of us had spoken or eaten had been those ten miserable days ago when we’d witnessed the mutilation of the one we’d called The Winner.

He had spoken at the wrong time in The Game and had his limbs chopped off and his tongue mutilated. What followed were days of torturous and gruesome games against The Opponents and then some of us who ran to hide in a crate in The Maze from The Predator were found and beckoned out of our hiding place by a little old lady with a funny twitch in her eye.

We somehow all trusted and followed the bent-over hag and she brought us to a cave near a waterfall in the woods somewhere none of us had never been in The Game-Board before. We had all been too scared to utter a word and the arduous hike had been without a bite to eat.

She had not spoken to us - almost respecting our mutual silence- and had gestured to us to lie next to one another upon the cold earthen floor.

She had crouched there by our heads and closed our weary eyelids with weathered fingertips. All of us had fallen into a deep sleep and then awoken, to find ourselves flying through dark skies with stars whizzing past. Or rather, we were not flying ourselves, but on the backs of two or three winged reptilian creatures.

They had flown us into the storm and dropped us by the hut and disappeared. We were not sure if this was a part of The Game or not. They had spoken in our heads so I wasn’t sure we had all gotten the same messages to free ourselves. My eyes fixed on the writing near my feet.

“The Author is looking for you.”

What could it mean? I wished then earnestly for warmer clothes and my ma’s crusty freshly baked bread. Tears sprang to my eyes at the thought.

My mother, bless her soul, was long dead in an unmarked grave since she, my brother and elder sister had all protested with our community when The Game came to our town. The Game was used to cull the population and curry favour for The King amongst the wealthy. The wealthy would keep paying taxes and The King would have a new income stream whilst keeping the poorer populations smaller and more manageable without outright killing us.

Rather, he would elevate the best of us and marry the first, second and third winners of each game to his wealthy friends’ children. This ensured a steady flow of new and strong blood into this smaller pool of people he kept in his courts. It helped his courts stay engaged and keep their eyes off his affairs.

For us, it was a fight for survival. If you didn’t win, you would be killed. We were highly incentivised to win since we could then afford to keep our poor families fed and warm thereafter, but they could never visit us nor we them.

As I reminisced about the smell of baked bread, I spotted The Tall one wandering off into the mist. I grappled over the uneven ground to follow him not caring what the others did. Tears were running unbidden down my cheeks as I saw what I guessed he must have seen too. There were tiny green plants pushing up through the hard baked lava-like ground at intervals. It was almost as if we were to follow them as signs. As the mist became thicker I lost sight of The Tall one but could still see the plants.

When the mists became too thick, I decided to sit down next to a plant. I rubbed its new leaves between my fingertips and a queer scent drifted up to my nose. “Who are you Author?” I thought. Then more urgently, “Where are you?”

“I am here.” Came a gentle voice all around me, muffled somehow in the warm mists that now enveloped me like a cloak.

The voice was that of my mother! And suddenly, there she was: emerging as her younger self out of the mists surrounded in a light that shimmered copper and gold.

She reached out her hand. “You are home.”

(p1 on my profile!)

"Hello, Ten."

She didn't wait any longer; she ran. It wasn't toward home, it wasn't toward anything– all it needed to be was away.

She ran as fast as her feet could take her, turning random corners until she dared to throw a glance over her shoulder: nothing.

Gasping for air, she slows and scans the area frantically. Who's to say he hadn't already transformed into a bird, or a bug, or a cloud? She flipped to check behind her and almost jumped when she saw him already there, staring again.

"I'm afraid running won't help you, dear."

How did he get there so fast with all his wits still about him? He must have access to some teleportation spell that she wasn't privy to. He was right: he could catch her wherever she ran. What she needed was to be hidden. She knew one combination– "hush" and "obscure"– that would blend her into her surroundings. It would take a lot of energy, but it was all she had.

Just as her lips had begun to form around the words, The Author took notice and called out a counterspell quicker than she could finish reciting half of her own. She slumped to the concrete like a ragdoll, limbs bent into strange positions, and he stepped closer to peer at her unmoving self.

"Apologies. Instinct."

Unable to speak, she only blinked in response.

"Right," he said. "If I give you your voice, do you promise not to try anything?" He paused. "Blink twice if yes."

Honestly, she didn't have many other ideas of what to do to get out of this. None that would work on the most powerful man alive, at least. She blinked twice.

"Wonderful." He released her voice from its magical prison, and she immediately fired off her defense.

"I only steal a little from those that have enough. I never target the same person twice. I've never used a spell to hurt someone. I take what I need, and if I have enough for the month, I'll stop until I run out of rations. I'm willing to reform completely if you'll grant me a period of grace. Really, I don't do this to hurt others. It's out of necessity. This is all I'm good at."

He raised his eyebrows. "Are you done?"

Tenley stiffened, if that was even possible in the state she was in.

"Have you no empathy? Magic is part of me. I've seen what happens when people go without it– they're emptied of something sacred, they go mad! I've never taken someone's life from them, so why do you have the right to do it to me?"

"I'm not going to do anything to your magic," he asserted.

"What? Why not?" Despite her fierce opposition, she still expected him to follow through on his mission. That was why he was here, after all. Or so she had thought.

"You've pioneered some of the most infamous combinations to date. You've managed to escape my top mages time and time again. The only way I could get to you without you evading me was to deceive you into taking something I knew you wouldn't be able to resist. You're practically unstoppable."

These all sounded like negative things he was listing off. She was sure it was some sort of trick, but there was so much sincerity in his face. "I don't understand."

He shakes his head. "Ten, I want you as my pupil."

For a moment, she's too shell-shocked to say anything. "You do?"

"I do." He reversed the stunlock he had placed on her and held out a hand to help her up. "Here."

She took it with the agency she had over herself again, and stood.

"Would that be something that interests you?" He asked.

"Yes," she said without hesitation. The thought of studying with some of the best magic-users in the world in the most prestigious institution to date, using her magic for good, for purposes greater than her own– it was absolutely exhilarating. "Yes, I'll do it."

He shakes her hand. "Perfect. It's a deal. From now on, you can address me as Dr. Amado."

"Dr. Amado. I can't believe it. The Author wants me as a student," she gushed, still shaking his hand. "I'm a huge fan of your work, sir. Sorry for appropriating it."

The edges of his mouth turn up into an amused smile. "They say imitation is the greatest form of flattery."

“You know who is looking for you.”

“Who?” I replied, my voice heavy with sarcasm. “The Author?”

Unamused, I stared at my friend. The stern look on my face contradicted the playful tone of the response. I knew who Steve was referring to but hated whenever someone referred to the man in the third person. It was as if his profession had become his pseudonym.

Contrary to how others cowered in fear when summonsed by The Author, I looked it as a rite of passage. A badge of honor worn with pride. However, that didn’t mean I failed to recognize his authority. The man had genuine power. With the snap of his fingers, he could smite someone from existence.

Placed on a pedestal for the unpublished to bow towards, The Author was deemed holier than the rest of us, as if being published was a huge accomplishment. These days it took more money than brains to accomplish such a feat. If his public persona was a sham, then perhaps he didn’t have an abundance of either.

Frustrated, I continued, “I don’t understand why nobody uses his real name. He’s a man just like the rest of us.”

‘No, no,” my friend corrected. “He’s The Author.”

“So that means I’m supposed to kneel down before him and kiss his ass?”

“Well, he actually prefers people to kiss his ring. Y’know, like the pope.”

With arms folded across my chest, I shook my head from side to side in quiet opposition. There was no part of me that would ever kiss The Author, regardless of the protocols dictated by society. Hell, I’d steal the ring before kissing it. A jeweled ornament like that would fetch a fair price at a pawn shop.

Although Steve was used to my strong opinions about The Author and knew we had clashed in the past, his demeanor appeared different, as if a reflection on the seriousness of the pending situation. The concern in his gaze seemed borne out of fear. He was scared for me.

“What is it this time? What did you do?”

Unable to look in his direction, I averted my eyes towards the floor then across the room.

In a bare audible whisper, I admitted, “I may have slept with his wife.”

“What does that mean? You’re not sure?”

“Well I slept with somebody but it’s not like I asked her for ID. It just kinda happened.”

“What, you tripped and accidentally fell inside of her?”

“I don’t know. It was a couple of weeks ago…the nineteenth, I think.”

“Wasn’t that Father’s Day?”

“Yep. The Author was spending time with their kids while she spent the afternoon with me. Everybody had a good time.”

Dumbfounded with his mouth agape, Steve looked at me stunned. Although we had been best friends since childhood and knew each other well, I wasn’t certain why he appeared surprised by the admission. There were no secrets between us. Our decades long relationship was built upon a foundation of trust and honesty. We accepted one another for who we were and how we were, for better or worse.

“I never thought you’d become an adulterer.”

“Am not,” I protested. “I’m not married, she is. That makes her the adulterer.”

“Do you think The Author is going to be comforted by that distinction?”

Before responding, our conversation was interrupted when a muscular hand clamped a hold of my shoulder. I tried wiggling away but the grasp squeezed tighter. It pulled me backwards a few steps. An anonymous face leaned beside my ear and spoke in a low, gravelly voice.

“The Author needs to speak with you.”

From behind, two men grabbed a hold of each of my arms and guided me towards a waiting automobile. My feet glided across the ground, barely in contact with the surface. After forcing me into the backseat, they climbed in, wedging me in between.

I had been through the charade before but still found it a bit daunting. Everyone in the car, except myself, was dressed in all black, as if prepared to attend a funeral. I wondered whether they all shopped at the same store or purchased their clothing in bulk. Their focused gaze of unemotional detachment suggested uncompromising devotion. A sense of humor seemed foreign to the group.

“You guys should start a boy band. You’re already dressed the part.”

They responded to my comment with a heavy silence that lingered until we pulled through the security gate surrounding The Author’s palatial estate and parked in front of an outbuilding. I was extricated from the vehicle and led to the front door by the two of the men. They opened the double doors, stepped aside, and waited. A familiar hand clamped down upon my shoulder.

“Move,” he said, pushing me through the doorway.

The heavy entrance doors slammed closed with each guard remaining behind. The noise echoed throughout the room, startling me. It felt like prison bars had clanged shut and taken away my freedom.

The interior of the small building was cavernous. Its walls were lined with overstuffed bookcases. On the far side, elevated from the remainder of the room, a desk with a few chairs were arranged on an altar. The Author sat with his back towards us, tapping away at a keyboard.

Although none of the lights were turned on, sunlight through the large stained glass windows filled the space with enough illumination to guide our path. The soft footfalls of our approach went unnoticed. The man who urged me forward pulled back on my shoulder until I stopped walking. He stepped in front of me and cleared his throat. The Author held up his hand with acknowledgement but said nothing. When he finished typing, he stood and walked towards us.

“Brother Jerome, you can leave us now.”

My guide nodded with agreement before turning to offer a small piece of advice.

“If you disrespect him, the next time you go for a ride with me will be your last time.”

“What if I disrespect you instead?” I asked, my fists curled in preparation.

Jerome said nothing as he pushed past me and exited the building.

With his hand cupped downward, The Author extended his right arm in my direction. I grabbed a hold of his hand and shook it.

“Nice ring,” I said with a smirk.

Dissatisfied, The Author pressed his lips together and exhaled loud through his nose.

“Why do yo do that?” he asked.

“I told you before, Jay, I’m not gonna kiss your ring.”

“Why do you mock me?”

“We all have a role to play.”

The Author closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side. It wasn’t obvious whether he disagreed with or acquiesced to my position on the matter, not that it would have made much of a difference.

After taking a deep breath, he looked me in the eyes and asked, “Do you know why you’re here?”

“Uh…no. Can’t say that I do.”

“If I ask you a question it’s because I already know the answer.”

“Then I have no reason being here. You can just walk around talking to yourself.” I stared into The Author’s eyes and waited for a reaction but none came. After an extended pause, I added, “Why am I here?”

“That’s kind of a philosophical question, don’t you think? Why are any of us here?”

“Jay, save the double talk for your adoring fans.“

“Don’t call me that,” he said with a forceful tone. “You will refer to me as The Author.”

“No, Jay, I will not. It’s one thing to do it in public, to keep up appearances, but not when it’s just the two of us.”

“Why not?”

There was a note of vulnerability in The Author’s voice. It contradicted his espoused belief of knowing all the answers. I had seen it before. Reaching out, I offered a comforted hold of his shoulder.

“To me, you are always gonna be the little brother who hid under my bed whenever a thunder storm rolled into town. Sometimes you need a hug and sometimes, a smack upside the head.”

“Is that why you became a book critic?” he asked.

“Of course it is. Everybody walks around kissing your ass, and I’ve got no problem with that. But somebody has to keep you in line.”

“And sleeping with my wife was somehow part of the plan?”

“You know it was. The pain you feel from being cheated on will keep you from ever doing the same to her.” I retrieved a flash drive from my pocket and offered it in his direction. It contained photo and movie files of the sexual dalliance. “Plus if she ever puts up a fuss or tries to divorce you, there’s enough evidence here to make sure you keep custody of your kids.”

Smiling as he accepted the drive, The Author replied, “Still trying to protect me, huh?”

“Always, brother. Always.”