Her dress was as green as gas station Jell-O, and its innards were equally artificial.

-Delores, “Turn Tables, Volume 2 in the Turnip the Volume Series”

MJ was particularly proud of Produce Plaza. He'd spent hours painting and flavoring fruit, warming the air to a perfect 57 degrees Fahrenheit, and selecting street clothes for the patrons. Against his better judgement, he'd slapped beards on just about every individual within spitting distance. Even the infants.

"Where exactly is Produce Plaza located?" Those had been the first words said aloud in the Plaza. The foreignness of spoken language did not mix well with the blueberries.

MJ made a mental note, then spun to face his supervisor.

Floating up to eyelevel he said, "A short walk away from Dairy Town's creamery. That will justify the whole 'spoiled milk' debacle in Chapter 2."

Delores nodded slowly. With hands folded behind her back, she paced the plaza once more.

"And the beards-"

"Well, they-uh, um, you see they..." MJ pulled off his wizard cap and shielded himself.

"Delete 70% of the beards here and make the broccoli cart a smidge taller. After that I think this town is ready to be written."

MJ peeked out from behind his cap.

On route to her exit, Delores said, "Excellent job, Making Jargon! We may just reach our deadline yet!" With that, she stomped twice on a puddle, and disappeared.

"Th-thank you!" MJ's words were echoless, for there was no one there to hear them.

After grieving the loss of 27 beards, MJ flipped his wizard cap and watched the world melt away. He loved the sound a melting world made - it resembled fresh zucchini hitting the frying pan. It smelled a lot like that too.

"I've read the last several pages and I'm - it's - I'm not sure-. Have you read this out loud?"

The voice from the speakerphone clattered down the hall. MJ could recognize that watered-down Georgian accent from anywhere. Perrin Pits. MJ snarled and hovered just outside the door.

"The heck did you send me?" Pits continued. "All setting, no story!"

MJ lowered a bit to peep through the keyhole. The last time Delores had heard those words, she'd eaten a roast beef sandwich on rye. Those had been a dark twelve minutes.

"I need to build worlds for the stories to thrive," Delores proffered. "You can't write dystopian sci-fi without a solid knowledge of the lore."

"And you can't publish dystopian sci-fi if nothing dystopian ever happens. At least not with this publishing house."

MJ could hear Delores sigh before taking a loud swig from her lucky water bottle.

"What exactly are you saying, Ms. Pits?"

The laughter that gushed from the speakerphone was more than the device could handle. A pixelated screeching came out in chunky bursts, dousing Delores in disgrace.

"Listen," said Pits, her tone suddenly matching a cartoon drill sergeant. "I understand it's hard to move on from your quadrilogy, I really do. I mean, Turnip the Volume was a freakin' MASTERPIECE. However, you wrote 'the end' remember? Remember that? Yeah. Now, Mr. Agnello was kind enough to let you stay at his beach house for the week. Don't, I repeat, DO NOT squander that time!"

"I know we agreed on three chapters this week but... what happens if I can't get it done?"

"Then we shove you onto a westbound train to that noob writer's retreat."

"Ah...underst-"

Three beeps. Pits must've hung up.

MJ's heart burned. At least he assumed it was his heart - it was difficult to locate on account of his being a floating beard. He peeked through the keyhole again. Delores was fingering a menu for Lavinski's Pastrami House. Drastic action was required.

MJ drifted down the hall to his supervisor's temporary writer's room. He hovered over the pages, scanning and scanning for just the right bit of heavily slanted cursive.

Then he found it.

"Making Jargon," he whispered, "it's finally time for the capuchins to pay the monthly rent."

(from the Tilda Universe)