So there we were; my inner muse and me. We were sitting together, writing.

That's what she would say, at least. In the interest of accuracy, I feel obliged to note that I was actually slouched in front of my laptop, whereas she sat about a yard away, perched on my beanbag chair with a notebook. A lime green notebook emblazoned with pink glitter glue hearts, no less - and additionally, I would like to disclaim that I am in no way responsible for my doppelganger’s bourgeois tastes.

“’In the interest of accuracy’?” she asked me. “‘Obliged to note’? ‘Disclaim’? Why don’t you add an ‘unavailable for comment at time of press’ as well?”

“Shut up,” I told her. “It’s not time for dialogue yet.”

First, let me point out that there was, at this time, little in the way of writing being done. I was playing Spider Solitaire; she was doodling furiously to a purpose I could only guess at.

Having apparently completed her sketch, she turned to look at me. I guiltily tried to minimize the Solitaire window before she noticed. I was unsuccessful.

“Seven of diamonds on the eight of clubs,” she snitted. “Then, you can open up a column and move your king.”

I glared. “I can’t work with you here; you know that.”

“I am you,” she protested insincerely, her tongue darting from her mouth.

“No, you’re a figment of my imagination. An irritating one. Go away.”

She fixed me with a wide-eyed look that went beyond conveying innocence, that suggested she didn’t even know what guilt was, wouldn’t recognize it if it dropped on her head from ten stories above.

“How am I irritating?” she asked. “And, by the way, bit of a cliché there with the whole ‘wouldn’t recognize it if’ thing.”

“That’s how. Plus, you know I hate dialogue. Dialogue and plots. That’s why I like journalism – you don’t have to make those up. And if you do, you tend to get fired.”
By now she had scooted her beanbag up to my chair and was gazing up at me, grinning and twiddling her thumbs.

“Yeah, I know, you suck at creative writing,” she said. “You suck, and you know it, but you want to write the Great American Novel, and so you created me! Although having me look exactly like you – not mankind’s most giant leap of imagination, I gotta say. Hey, can I have gum.”

I grabbed the pack sitting next to me, unwrapped a piece, and tossed it to her. “If you start popping it, I’ll kill you.”
“But wouldn’t that really be suicide?”

I ignored her. I tried, at least; I really, really did. I took deep, calming breaths. Write, I told myself silently. It doesn’t matter what you put on the page, you’ve just got to fill it. Write.

That aphorism isn’t true, by the way. When the only thing that comes to mind are the 90’s pop lyrics stuck in your head, you’re better off just putting the keyboard away. Really.

“I can help you,” she pouted. She was popping the gum, smacking her lips with each chew. “Let me try and help you.”

“Try to,” I said. “And we’ve been over this, already. Yesterday, you were also going to help me. We spent three hours arguing over whether it’s pretentious to say ‘nauseated’ instead of ‘nauseous.’”

“I still say it is,” she told me. “The words mean what you want them to, man. Let them flow. Let them flow through you.”

“When did you start talking like a stoned hippie?” I asked.

“Maybe I am,” she said, flickering in front of my eyes and reemerging in bell bottoms, long hair, and fringe. “By the way, ‘in front of my eyes’? Really?”

“You’re nauseous,” I clarified. “I’m nauseated.”

She popped her gum again, changing back into the wide-eyed teenybopper. “Like, whatever.”

I returned to typing – fruitlessly, but still.

“What are you writing anyway?” she asked between smacks.

“About my inner muse. It’s for this contest site.”

“Ohhhh.” She helped herself to my cup of coffee. “This is gross. Did you reheat it?”

“If you’re not real,” I asked, “is that just going to stain my floor?”

She shrugged. “Your floor is yucky anyway.”

“‘Yucky’? You’re my inner literary spirit?”

She shrugged again.

“I really can’t write with you around,” I said.

“I told you – I am you.”

“Well, I can’t write with me around, then. I can’t write, period. Leave me alone.”

She grinned mischievously. “Looks like a pretty good job to me. Or a job, at least. Needs a catchy ending, though. Maybe with a hook.”

“It’s five minutes till submissions close,” I said. “Let’s just leave things in media res.”

“Why do you always work on deadline?” she admonished. “Hmff. Journalists.”

Fanatic — as he was known to users of the Worth1000 community — sat at his desk frowning at the screen in front of him. He typed a few random words, deleted them, and then leaned back in his chair, staring into space.

This is embarrassing, he thought. The deadline for the Writing Companion contest is almost here, and I haven't written a single syllable. And I'm the one who suggested this silly contest in the first place!

Heaving a sigh, Fanatic stood and stretched his legs. He massaged his temples with his fingers, as though willing a complete story to flow into his head, an 800-word masterpiece that would earn the score he needed to retain the coveted title of Supreme Chancellor of Text.

Unfortunately, his mind remained as blank as the page in front of him. The cursor blinked on and off incessantly. It was like sitting in traffic behind a lousy driver who changed lanes ten minutes ago and somehow doesn't realize he's still flashing his turn signal.

Fanatic's eyes traveled over the objects in his study as he searched for inspiration. He looked at his trademark Tilley Hat, hanging on a hook by the door. He looked at the framed picture on his desk — Vernon Estes holding a prototype of the Astron Scout. Come on, Vern. Help me think. Help me come up with the idea that'll clinch the gold trophy.

But of course Estes said nothing, standing frozen in time, his gaze appearing to rest on something just beyond the photographer's shoulder.

The fire-breathing giant is the answer, Fanatic thought, and then he gave a startled jump ... because it hadn't been his own voice he'd heard in his head ... it had been another voice ... a soft, deep voice that was at once strange, yet eerily familiar. Wondering whether he was going crazy, Fanatic turned and followed the unblinking gaze of the figure in the photograph.

On the wall behind him, beside a dozen certificates awarded at various model rocketry competitions over the years, was an enormous poster of Saturn V rising majestically from the Earth. Fanatic's eyes lingered on the column of white-hot fire roaring from its thrusters. He thought he could almost smell the smoke billowing around the launch pad.

Wait ... I do smell smoke ... did I leave the oven on?

He turned toward the door, and saw that the entryway was blocked by the head and neck of a vast and scaly dragon.

Going somewhere? the dragon asked, and the creature's voice was the one he'd heard in his head. Surprisingly, Fanatic did not scream, or panic, or attempt to flee through the second-story window — though it certainly crossed his mind to do all three, preferably at the same time. Instead, he simply stared, the acrid odor of smoke tickling his nostrils.

Cat got your tongue? the dragon said, its jaws drawing back in a toothy smile. Or have you simply been rendered speechless at the sight of the almighty Flagon?

Fanatic swallowed, wondering whether the hedges in his front yard would break his fall if he changed his mind about leaping to freedom. "Fla-Flagon?" he sputtered. "As in ... Dio and Flagon? That Flagon?"

The very same, Flagon said. Dio is out with some friends. It's Karaoke Night at Barry's Bar and Grill, and I'd rather chew my own wings off than hear another drunken businessman's rendition of 'Sweet Caroline'. I decided to go flying for awhile — to let off some steam, so to speak — and when you began experiencing writer's block it summoned me like a siren's song.

"Writer's block?" Fanatic whimpered.

Indeed, the beast replied. That's what I do, you see. I help people with writer's block. 'Dio's Detective Agency' didn't write itself, you know. Every artist needs a muse. I suppose it's a conflict of interest for me to be here, seeing as how my friend Dio is a challenger for the chancellorship. But what can I say? You're a talented fellow, and I can't stand idly by while you're at a loss for words.

"You're not real," Fanatic announced. "I've been spending too much time cooped up in this office. I'm going to walk over to my desk right now and play Half-Life for a while, and when I turn around you'll be gone."

Actually, I should be going anyway, Flagon said, shrugging its reptilian shoulders. If I miss Dio's karaoke performance I'll never hear the end of it ....

The dragon gave a wink, and disappeared.

Shaking his head to rid himself of any remnants of this extraordinary vision, Fanatic slumped into his desk chair. He made a note to call his physician the next day to tell him about the hallucination.

And then, the cobwebs in his imagination cleared away by this bizarre and mystifying brush with a fantasy world, Fanatic cracked his knuckles, laid his hands on the keyboard, and began to write.

"Good evening! This is Customer Service. How may I help you?"

"I have a complaint."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry to hear that sir. I'll do my best to resolve your situation. What is the nature of your concern?"

"My dragon isn't witty."

"Oh, dear. I can see why you should be concerned. But have no fear; in the unlikely event that something is really wrong with it, you should know that all of our companion dragons are unconditionally guaranteed for life. Let me just check your file."

"Thank you. I'm sorry to be a bother."

"No bother at all, sir. I rather enjoy helping, actually. Let me see here.... Oh, I'm sorry sir. You purchased the Goodone, our standard model dragon. It's not really capable of truly witty dialog, unless you spend the time to train it."

"Oh, dear. I thought all of the dragons were witty."

"No sir, I regret that you may have misunderstood the sales brochure. Only our Deluxe Dragon is truly witty."

"So, how much is the Deluxe Dragon?"

"Sixty thousand dollars, sir."

"Sixty thousand dollars?! A Flagon costs sixty thousand dollars?"

"A Flagon? Oh, no, sir. The Deluxe model is called a Canton. A Flagon is only five dollars. It isn't really witty, but it has a weak magic spell that tricks most listeners' senses enough so that they think it's witty."

"It's hard to imagine that it can get away with that!"

"Normally, I'd agree with you, sir. But times are changing, and the educational system isn't what it used to be."

"So what kind of person would purchase one of those?"

"I'm sorry sir; we're not at liberty to violate the privacy of our customers."

"Well, then, tell me this: Are all of the Flagons out there your model?"

"I should hope so, sir; we have a rather daunting patent portfolio, and the name 'Flagon' is an exclusive trademark of ours for domesticated dragons. There are rumored to be a handful of undomesticated Flagons still living in wilderness areas, but those rumors have never been confirmed."

"So what happens if one of your Flagons and a Canton have a battle of wits? Who wins?"

"I am sorry to say that it's usually the Flagon. Perception over reality, as always, sir."

"Well if that's the case, what's my Goodone good for?"

"Well, sir, if I may, there is a saying to the effect that you never learn something well unless you have to teach it."

"I'm familiar with it. It's by Joubert: 'To teach is to learn twice.'"

"Precisely, sir. The advantage of the Goodone is that you have to teach it, and in the process, learn the subject matter thoroughly."

"So, I have to teach it how to engage in witty dialog?"

"After you teach it to speak well, yes, sir. And may I say that I think you'll be quite good at it, sir."

"But if I spend sixty thousand dollars on a Canton, I can get the witty dialog ready-made?"

"Yes, sir; that is an option. But it wouldn't be your dialog, of course."

"Oh, right. But if I buy a five-dollar Flagon I can fake it?"

"Well, sir, not everyone is equally affected by the magic. As your President Lincoln once said, 'You can fool all of the people some of the time....'"

"Right. Got it. OK, then, I think I made the right decision by buying the Goodone. Time to start teaching it to speak well."

"Excellent choice, sir."

"How do I do that?"

"Do what, sir?"

"Teach it to speak well."

"Pretty much the same way you teach any student to speak, sir. Expose it to lots of erudite conversation, and it will start imitating you. Let it learn from its mistakes. Don't be too harsh. Give it high marks when it does well, and good comments all of the time. It's fairly simple, really."

"I see. And I'll learn better vocabulary, and speech, and dialog, just by teaching it?"

"Indubitably, sir. By the way, may I ask the reason for your purchase of a dragon?"

"I need a writing companion. I need it to help me write well. To challenge me to keep improving."

"Well, then, sir, let me just say that you have chosen very well."

"And why do you say that?"

"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sonnet, and I, myself, am a Goodone. I am also a writing companion, in service to the author of this piece. (It's excellent by the way)."

"(Thank you. Do you think the readers will like it?)"

"(Why don't you submit it and find out?)"

"(Do you think I'm ready for that?)"

"(Yes. Yes, I do.)"

"(If you say so. But I need to figure out an ending for it.)"

"(You just did.)"

The backs of my eyes itched like mad. All the while the tinny voice warbled about Richard's actions and whether or not I was cheating the readers if I wrote in his brother as a character to help him with his dilemma at the shop. Protests, complaints, critiques. I groaned loudly and staggered into the bathroom, running cool water on my hands and covering my face.

A small glinting light bounced off the mirror. I leaned closer and the high pitched buzz increased in intensity. I stared directly into my right eye, slowly moving toward the glass. The buzz becoming an insistent squeal and then a droning, ear cracking symphony of alarm. Without thinking, I bashed my forehead into the medicine cabinet mirror. It shattered at once in a jarring chorus of breaking glass. I felt a familiar warm substance trickle down my forehead, but the cacophony was gone at the least.

As I reached for a large shard to examine the cut, I heard the voice again, this time from elsewhere, and not so unnerving. Sprawled out on the shelf between the aspirin and the shaving cream was a little blue creature with gossamer wings. It shook its head clear then shot me a lethal look with two fiery green eyes.

"How the heck did you figure that out?" it said.

I just stared, I knew it was the voice that had been plaguing me, but I didn't want to believe it. It stood amidst the glittering rubble and flitted its wings once, twice, then took off to hover in front of my face.

"Why ya so agape you ape?! You created me, dumb dumb!" it shrieked.

My mouth was a trembling arid wasteland. I must have been hallucinating from the crack to the head. Nothing more. Just a bit out of sorts. I tried to smile but dropped it immediately, then tried again.

"No, uhh, no I didn't, little figment, best dart off now, I'm going to need a doctor-"

The creature buzzed, obviously annoyed. It drifted closer to my face so I could see the electric yellow streak running down its own forehead.

"We've got a story to write, don't we?" it said.

"Yes... yes I suppose we do..." I conceded, turning toward my office with a handful of toilet paper pressed against my brow. I collapsed into my chair and spun around to face the dreaded document of doom. Five days of clawing and biting for every word and so little progress.

The sprite, who I dubbed "Figment" in my mind (har har), crossed its arms and hovered next to the computer monitor.

"Well?" it demanded.

"Well what? You're the crazy creature that's been tapping against my brains for the last few days, you tell me what to write!" I said, getting frustrated with the whole situation.

"You know what you have to write, I'm just here because you refuse to do it," it said. "You're a stubborn man. So much so, you cracked your brain against a mirror and spit out an imaginary friend just to avoid it!" it yelled.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I tried, lying. It knew instantly and hissed its buzzing mystical sound.

"Look, do you want to win this contest or not?" asked Figment.

"Of course I do, it's just... so hard to deal with. What do they want from me!" I asked the sprite. "It's all squishy drivel, I don't have it in me to write, okay? I don't. If you want a Chase Jackson, or a funny list, I'm there, but-"

The sprite darted forward and bopped me on the lower lip with its claw like hand. "Think, dumb dumb!" it yelled again.

"There's a man..." I started.

The sprite nodded.

"...and he has a problem..." I continued.

"Uh huh", the sprite remained stone faced.

"... and that is, that he is...madly... truly...completely enraptured with the mysterious woman at the coffee shop in the Chanel sunglasses," I concluded.

The sprite darted up in the air and did a twirl, "there you go!" it exclaimed. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" it asked.

"Yes. Can I at least make sure they both die?" I asked, as I began to write my entry for yet another Romance contest.

The sprite buzzed again, flying hard at me and bouncing off my nose, "No, no no, no, no!" it yelled.

"Fine! Fine, alright fine!" I yelled at it. Grabbing the little creature in my hand and stuffing it under an empty drinking glass on the desk as I wrote. The mush, the gush, the euuuughcck of it all. Maybe a bit of misfortune, nothing major, broken arm... plague... hrm..., I thought as the words came more easily now, 'damn you Worth admins'.

Jack Bunt was trapped, his back to the abyss, his heels already over the edge.

"No," said Dr. Mayhem, and abruptly pushed Jack over the edge.

"You can't do that!" said Shmoo.

"Why not?" I asked.

"It's not funny. Besides, you're writing what you think people want to read. You need to write what you want to write, and let the readers come to you."

I picked him up by one arm and dropped him into my iced coffee.

"Hey!" he said, sputtering, as he clutched the edge of the cup.

The ship was sinking by the bow. Mack Lawson pulled Iris out of the dark, icy waters.

"Stop! You're making my eyes bleed, reading that junk!" said Shmoo, climbing out of the cup. He shook himself off. "Why can't you just kick me like everyone else?"

"Because you're a Shmoo, from the Valley of the Shmoon, and you like to be kicked," I said. "Now, what's the matter with my sinking ship story?"

"It's.

"Not.

"You."

"So what? This stuff sells!" I said, and flicked him across the desk.

The impact of the fully-loaded cement truck sent AssassinBot sprawling, but only momentarily. He was undeterrable, and undeterred.

"'Undeterrable and undeterred'? What kind of hack writing is that?" asked Shmoo. "And is 'undeterrable' even a word?"

"I'm a writer. I can make up my own words," I said sanctimoniously. "Besides, the New York Times uses it. At least, I think it does."

"What do you really know about assassins, or robots?" asked Shmoo.

"What difference does that make?" I asked.

"The difference between success and failure, perhaps," Shmoo replied.

I picked him up and threw him across the room.

As he flew through the air, The Caped Apprehender scanned the city below, looking for those who would take advantage of the weaker members of our great society.

"'Great Society?' Who do you think you are, Lyndon Johnson?" said the Shmoo, climbing back onto the desk.

He's pretty agile, for a bowling-pin-shaped cartoon character. And persistent, too. Ever since I adopted Shmoo from an old Li'l Abner cartoon book, he's made himself at home in my life. Like all Shmoon, he exists to serve; we just have a slightly different opinions on what "serve" means; that's all.

"Your best stories are about what you care about the most; they share a part of yourself with the rest of the world," said Shmoo.

I stabbed him with a pencil. He sighed and started pulling it out, just like he always does.

Sir Arrowtrue, unexpectedly skewered by a lance, struggled to pull it out of his chest, while yet keeping a wary eye out for the Black Knight himself, lest he appear out of the mist which clung to the moss-laden trees of Sherwood Forest as a maiden clings to--

"Enough!" Shmoo seemed rather irritated, which is uncommon for Shmoon. "You can't possibly enjoy writing this!"

He was right about that. I hung my head. "Not really," I said.

"What was the last story you really enjoyed writing?" asked Shmoo.

"I don't remember," I replied.

"Oh, try."

"The one about my pet lizard. Except I turned it into a baby dragon. It was really just about some of the fantasies I used to have, when I was younger."

"You really liked that pet lizard of yours, huh?" asked Shmoo, gently.

"Yes."

"And you put that into your story. Sure, you gussied it up a bit, but it was about you, am I right?"

"Yes, you're right. As usual."

"OK, then. So stop with all this action/adventure nonsense."

"But that's what readers want!"

"Not your readers. Someone else's readers. Your readers want a piece of you."

"I don't know how to give them that."

"Yes you do, but it's uncomfortable for you, unless you're having fun."

"It's scary," I said. Then I kicked him, because I knew that he was right. Shmoon enjoy being kicked, and he deserved the reward.

"Thanks! That felt good!" said Shmoo. "So, think of your childhood. Remember something you did during summer vacation, when you were really having fun."

"Once we built a tree house high in the branches of a willow tree," I said. "We could see across the fields, all the way to the woods. We used to play all sorts of games up there."

Shmoo climbed into my lap and curled up like a cat. "Go on," he prodded.

"The woods were dark and fearsome, and on our platform high above the fields, we were quite certain that we alone were protecting the neighborhood from some awful fate."

Suddenly, there was a story to tell, and I began to write.

It was 2001 when I found my writer. He was a strange person, with a lot of off-the-wall ideas, but somehow I knew we would make a good team.

Our original forays together were interesting. He cast himself into a role opposite mine, but I got to direct the whole thing, which suited me. There was one time he had us fly to an air show in West Virginia, I sort of made a detour down the coast and ended up over Washington DC in the height of the Homeland Security nonsense. I buzzed Congress, picked up a helicopter escort, headed over the White House, and ended up over the Pentagon by the time they had scrambled the F-16's. I guess I had caught them napping. So anyway, we had helicopters shooting at us, and a couple of missiles headed in our direction when I got us out of there. My writer of course was hanging on for dear life - I don’t happen to be outfitted with seat belts and was performing some high G maneuvers, but we came out in one piece, although I had to swoop down and pick him up from midair once or twice as I recall.

My writer decided to take a bit more control after that, though I can’t imagine why. He cast himself as director for a series of fairy-tale productions. I, on the other hand, was cast into the following: A billy-goat, Red Riding Hood, Cinderella, a wolf, Rapunzel, and once, just for a change of pace, a dragon. I did get my revenge though. I was cast as the wolf in “The three little pigs”. I blew their houses down alright. Burned them right to the ground. Except for the brick one. I think everything tastes better coming out of a brick oven, don’t you?

Then he got into a “Princess and the Frog” kick. Well, at least the frog took all the abuse in that series. I usually only had to sit back and laugh. He covered him in white cotton balls (Little Bo Peep), black cotton balls (Bah Bah Black Sheep), and got to be a pea under a mattress (The Pea and the Princess) among other indignities. The frog was a trooper though, and ended up as a regular part of our cast. I am not sure if that was a good thing or not, but he got to get the writer’s chestnuts out of the fire on occasion, so I guess it was worth it.

My writer started making his character more powerful. I didn’t mind too much, since I always had the upper hand anyway. But he turned himself into a creature that spanned time and space, and finally all probability paths. Which matched my writer’s personality, he knew a little about everything, but could never put it to good use. That is where I stepped in. I provided the grounding he needed. Sure, I am big, and I am sassy, and I do not suffer fools easily, but my writer means well, and I have no problem putting up with his odd habits. Most of the time anyway.

While I am thinking about it... What ever did you folks introduce him to Noir? Now he has this character straight out of a pulp fiction novel he thinks is cool, and I have to work triple time to keep him out of trouble. He wouldn’t know what to do with a gun if you loaded it and super-glued it in his hand, and he is out fighting street gangs? Yeah, nice work folks. And while we are at it, thanks bunches for getting him to write Romance. That was sarcasm by the way. Heck, I can’t even figure out what makes humans tick in that department. Reading that stuff makes me understand why my writer has so many odd quirks. I am not sure that is a good thing.

In has been a long interesting trip since 2001. At this point we work with some really powerful creatures, some friends, some enemies, and you are never sure which is which. All to get the universe ready to end properly somewhere down the road, though my writer is entirely unclear about what that entails, what it looks like, or what we need to accomplish it. The usual. All I know is there isn’t a creature out there that doesn’t respect me. I guess you can’t ask for much more from your writer.

Oh, by the way, my writer thinks he is the one that is in control. Let’s just keep this interview our little secret, OK?

My study was lit only by the bluish light of the computer screen. I stared at the blank white page with its flashing cursor. I knew that as soon as I began typing he would appear. I wasn't sure what was worse - the blank screen or the muse that I had somehow materialized out of my fervid imagination. I took a deep breath. Fame and fortune awaited me. This story was the one. I could feel it in my bones.

The girl in the tight red dress ran down the alley. Cold moonlight shone on her heaving bosom as she tried to drag air into her terrified lungs.

“Very nice,” he said stepping out of the shadows. “At least you managed to wait until the second sentence before mentioning her bosom.”

“Oh great,” I said. “Like I need a critic.”

“This was your idea. You were tired of editors rejecting your manuscripts with notes about poorly written pornography.”

“My stories aren't poorly written!”

“How many sentences before that thin silky dress is torn from her body revealing the twin mounds of...”

“OK, OK, you've made your point. How would you write it?”

“The girl walked through the alley. The moonlight shone on her innocent eyes highlighting the fear she felt....”

“Hey, you want to write that you type it yourself.” I pushed back from the keyboard and waved the unicorn toward it.

He just snorted and looked at me.

“Have you every tried typing with hooves?”

“You could use your horn.”

“Remember what happened when you asked me to cleanse your computer of all the viruses you picked up doing your 'research'?”

I pushed my chair between him and the keyboard. Re-installing the operating system had been the least of it. All my stories had been reduced to greeting card brevity.

“What did you say again?” I typed in his sentence and stared at it. “It's boring. It may be pure as the driven snow, but snow is dull. You need some darkness for contrast.”

The moonlit also fell on the eyes of the man who pursued her. His eyes were the cold, patient eyes of a predator...

“Thats actually not bad,” mused the unicorn. “No sex at all. What happens next?”

“Well usually he would catch up to her and tear her dress trying to have his way with her...”

“...then some cleft chinned moron will rescue her, then finish taking the dress off. How about you do something a bit different.”

“Like what?”

“Hmmm,” the unicorn shook his head while I dodged the point of his horn. “Maybe we drag the chase on for a bit, and leave the poor girl's dress on for a few more paragraphs.”

The girl, whose name was Rose, slipped through the shadows. She knew that the predator was there, even if she couldn't see him. Innocent and naive she might be, but she wasn't stupid. The brain behind those eyes held information that could bring Dovstoyeski's criminal empire tumbling...

“Dovstoyeski? You are calling your mob boss Dovstoyeski?” The unicorn sounded even more upset by that name, than the heaving bosoms. Great, I had materialized a Russian unicorn.

“We can always change it later,” I said. He snorted but nodded his head.

....tumbling down. She had gone through her father's accounts when he died. It hadn't taken long to figure out that something about them was very wrong. The visit from Dovstoyeski's thugs had just confirmed her fears. Now she was running for her life.

“How does she get away from the killer?” the unicorn asked. “Since she is obviously too smart to fall for some clod with a cleft chin.”

I rubbed my chin (uncleft by the way) in thought.

“We could have some unlikely person help her. We keep her confused about whether they are a good guy or bad guy until the end.”

“Original,” said the unicorn. I couldn't tell whether he was being sarcastic or not. You wouldn't believe how sarcastic a creature of light and purity could be.

She left the alley, and cursed....

“Hey,” said the unicorn.

“What word would you use?” I asked. When he didn't answer I kept typing.

.... the impulse that had made her run toward the business district. She knew the tangle of street and building intimately, but at this time of night it was deserted. Rose ran as quietly as she could down the street. She heard the banging and crashing of the garbage collectors. Garbage collectors! Their presence might be enough to throw off the killer behind her. She ran toward the noise.

It had been a normal night until the girl in the black suit ran smack into his arms. Milton oofed...

“YOU'RE NAMING A GARBAGE MAN MILTON?”

“Psst, Kim? Are you there?”

“What?”

“Hi.”

“Yeah, Hi. What do you want?”

“I’ve got an idea!”

“No.”

“No?”

“No!”

“Why no?”

“Why no?… Let me see, it’s four o’clock in the morning and YOU didn’t let me get to sleep until two!”

“Yeah, so, I’ve got an idea!”

“That’s what you said at midnight! And if you’ll remember, the page is still blank!”

“That was your fault! I had the idea; you just couldn’t do anything with it! That isn’t my fault!”

“What!?”

“You heard me! It isn’t my fault the page is still blank!”

“Your idea sucked!”

“It did not suck, it was a great idea!”

“It was NOT a great idea! It was mediocre at best and you didn’t think it through enough.”

“I don’t have to think it through, that’s your job!”

“Well I did think it through and it sucked!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“How can you say you thought it through? You sat there and stared at the page and didn’t type a thing.”

“It wasn’t worth typing out.”

“Yes, it was!”

“No, it wasn’t!”

“But it had everything in it, I gave you the whole story and you didn’t even try to write it. Why?”

“Because it didn’t make sense, that’s why!”

“It did make sense! I tried it out on your subconscious while you were napping and she liked it.”

“That wasn’t my subconscious, that was me trying to get you to shut up so I could take a nap! You kept me up until three in the morning last night with another of your great ideas that didn’t pan out.”

“It would have worked! The dragon was a perfect character, he had fire and guts and he spoke a mean game!”

“A mean game? He spoke in code! How the heck is that good? Most people wouldn’t have even understood him!”

“Hey, that’s not my fault they are all idiots!”

“They aren’t all idiots you moron!”

“Look who’s calling the kettle black!”

“Ok, so I didn’t understand what he was saying! How am I supposed to write the story when I have no idea what the main character is saying?”

“I told you I’d explain it!”

“At two in the morning?! You want to explain binary code to me at two in the morning?”

“Sure! Any idiot could have understood it!”

“Any idiot huh!”

“Well, almost any idiot. But apparently, not my idiot!”

“Watch where you walk here, you’re treading a thin line!”

“Thin line!? What’s that suppose to mean?”

“Don’t act stupid, you know what it means!”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes, you do!”

“Fine, I do. But still, it would have been a great story if you’d have bothered to listen to me.”

“I listened, remember! I just didn’t understand a darn thing you were saying!”

“But….”

“No…no but, I didn’t get it, period!”

“He would have spouted fire though, and charred up the field and brought you great honor.”

“No, he would have spouted code and confused everyone and then he would have tried to kill them with a twisted goofy humor that only he would understand….oh, and you!”

“Hey. I have a good sense of humor!”

“No, you don’t! You have a dry sense of humor that deals mostly with computer codes and nerd jokes that everyone’s already heard before!”

“Now, that hurt! I tell original jokes!”

“No, you don’t. And no matter what you might think or how many times you wake me up in the middle of the night, I am NOT going to write YOU into a story!”

“But Kim, please?! I’ll let you get some sleep if you do! Really, I will!”

“Seriously? Eight hours sleep? You promise?”

“I promise!”

“Fine, go make me a cup of coffee!”

“Yeah, if I could do that, I’d write my own darn story. Remember!?”

Marvin is always a difficult one. From the end of his scaly tail to the tip of his pointy forked tongue, every gram of his being perpetuates a constant battle between the two of us. It never seems to matter what stance I take, he takes the other. I want something short, he fights for long. I want romantic, he wants horrific. His beady red eyes always look at me in silent disapproval. It’s as if he feels I can’t choose for myself.

He’s a strange one, too. His long, reptilian body is covered in scales that reflect a bright spectacle of iridescent colors. He’s nearly my height but I’d never win in a wrestling match with him because his arms and legs are far more powerful than mine. It’s a very good thing our quarrels have never become physical as I surely would never win. He can walk on all fours, or upright if it suits him. Sometimes I think his likeliness to adapt human qualities is in direct proportion to his approval of my actions at the moment.

Others would probably view him as some sort of monster, but when he’s sitting at the table sipping tea it’s sometimes easy to forget what he truly is. His teeth can be intimidating, especially when a wicked snarl parts from his long snout. Sometimes I find I am afraid of him, but it’s not due to his appearance, but more a fear of what ideas he may plant in my head or what he may reveal about me that I wasn’t consciously aware of.

Marvin isn’t all bad. He’s the one that often pushes me out of my comfort zone and into a place I haven’t been before. He keeps my writing interesting. He can simplify or complicate pieces at just the right moment because he has a keen knack for shaking things up. Our struggle allows me to see what I couldn’t have seen on my own.

Often times, late at night when it’s just the two of us, he’ll lean close and quietly whisper ideas into my head. Sometimes I laugh out loud at the sheer ridiculousness of the idea, sometimes he’ll say something so wrong it will make me irate, and sometimes I will just sit in awe at the insight he provided that I somehow had totally missed on my own. It’s often amazing how I can be completely blind to things that are so obvious while he can immediately identify them.

Is he always right? Certainly not! But when he is right I am wrong, and when I am right he is wrong, and together we make just the right amount of mistakes to remain interesting and unpredictable, while making just enough correct decisions to remain credible and relevant.

What is Marvin? He’s my best friend. He’s my worst enemy. He makes me everything that I am and everything that I am not. Most importantly, he makes me a better person and he makes me a better writer. He is the balance in my life that makes my successes fulfilling and my failures grand. And truthfully, I would not have it any other way!

MUSE
Alone…

Things had been going well for me, my book was flying off the shelves at epic rates. My dream had come true… I was now officially a successful writer with plenty of ideas for my next book. So why couldn’t I write?

I stared loathingly at the blank screen of my laptop, the same blank white canvas on which I had painted the life of Andrew so recently. Even though I had finished that book I remembered staring at the same blank screen…
My thoughts locked up in the prison that was my brain…
I remembered feeling alone then too…
Maybe that’s why he had come.

*“Go home Andrew” Anna said, leaning into his office.
“You tell me that every night, knowing I wont and loving the stories I give you because I spend all my time right here.” Andrew replied, playing his role in the ritual they played every. She knew that Andrew wouldn’t leave until he had the story just right, which is why he was the best journalist there. *

“Just horrible.”
I jumped almost completely out of my chair when I heard the words, the nervous reflex evident in the “a;lksjg” I had punched in as the entire home row of my keyboard was pressed simultaneously. I spun around looking for who had spoken the words in my supposedly empty apartment.
“You’re forcing it.”
I couldn’t find the speaker.
“Who’s there?” I said loudly, trying to sound as intimidating as I could, though I knew the audible quiver in my voice defeated the attempt before it left my lips.
The only response was a mocking laughter, and with it came the terrifying realization that the source of the voice that I sought was me.

The voice I heard was emanating from inside my head…

Sure now that I had snapped, that the weeks of sitting alone in my apartment mulling over the lines of text on my screen had gotten the better of me. I began to slip into a panic.
Thinking back now it seemed odd that in such a position, rather than going immediately to a doctor (or skip the middle man and go straight to the asylum) I just responded to the comment.
“What’s horrible?”
“The chapter.” The voice replied.
“Great… I lose my mind and instead of the entertaining voice of insanity you hear in comedies I get a critic.”
“Ah but a constructive one, I’ve come to help.”

The “conversation” continued on for most of the night. After several hours of coaxing I decided that I had not, in fact, lost my mind but was the host of some symbiotic voice who now lives in my brain.

As the weeks passed I came to appreciate the voice, I provided the overall plot but the voice guided and shaped the words as I typed them, giving me ever greater insight into Andrew’s thoughts and motives. The chapters floated by, and when I went back to proof-read them I was amazed that such eloquence in text had come from me. The plot was progressing ever towards the ending I had formed the entire novel around. The writer’s block had evaporated with my sanity.

“So what do I call you? I can’t keep calling you ‘The Voice’.”
“Whatever you like… I do live in your head smart-guy.” The voice replied.
I had grown fond of the sharp humor of the voice.
“How about Warden?” I asked.
“Warden?” he echoed.
“Yeah, before you came I thought of my mind much like a prison locking up my creativity.”
“Well then, sounds like I showed up just in time!”
“Yeah.”
“Oh not because of the writers block… because if ‘Warden’ is the best you can come up with you can use all the creative help you can get.”
“Hardy-har.”

The ending I had anticipated so much was almost here. As I began typing the final chapter Warden grew oddly quiet.
“What no input on the ending?”

*Andrew put the finishing touches on his story and began packing up to go home.*

“This is the only part I wont help you with… you built this novel around the ending.”

*He grabbed the bag containing his laptop and left the building, preparing for the three-block walk to his apartment.*

“Oh come on, you can still spice it up a little, or at least throw in one last bit of sharp wit.” I laughed.

*Supremely satisfied with how his story came out, Andrew felt great as he rounded the last corner, his apartment in sight.*

“No, I have helped you all that I can.”

*The driver careened around the corner behind Andrew, he heard it and turned around just as the headlights were bearing down on him.*

As I typed the final words of the novel, the tragedy I had worked so hard on, the horrifying realization of what I had done slowly set in.

*Andrew barely had time to shout in fear before the drunk driver slammed into him …*

I dropped my head into my hands… overwhelmed… shocked…

Alone…
A N D R E W
W A R D E N