The Inner Debate


She sits on the futon behind me, her ankle propped on her knee and her other foot tapping, slowly but impatiently. She’s letting those long claws on her toes click against the bottom level of the coffee table, like a cat who scratches the furniture for attention. And, also like a cat, her long golden tail is swishing lazily next to her, as if it had a mind of its own. 

“Glare all you want. But you’ll just have to wait.”

“I’ve waited for months,” replies Ameryn. “Wait, make that years. You started this when you were thirteen. You’re how old, now?”

“I know, I know. I’ve been busy.”

“You’ve always been busy. Busy being everything but a writer, which this–what did you call it?–bog thing says that you are.”

“It’s called a blog. And I’m working on it.”

“You haven’t written a word about me. Don’t tell me you’re considering another rewrite. Not after all we’ve been through.”

“Your story is set in stone for all I’m concerned. It’s just challenging making your story as compelling or believable to others as it always has been to me.”

She rolls her eyes and lets her head fall back against the top of the futon. “It’s a fantasy. It’s not supposed to be believable. It’s a prehistory. You can make it as believable or as unbelievable as you want.”

“It’s cliche in parts, though.”

“All stories are cliche. There is nothing new under the sun.”

“I’m still ironing out the details of Berasian mythology.”

Ameryn sighs. “All these excuses will never get you anywhere.” I look back. Her half-lidded eyes manage to plead with me, in spite of her queenly bravado. “And Zon asked so nicely that you finish it.”

I look down at the carpet. Up at the ceiling. Over at the glowing screen of my laptop. Anywhere but into the gaze that mirrors mine.

“And Enilor. And Narina. And Aileen. They’ll be grandparents by the time you get done, at this rate.”

“I KNOW.” I look at her. “I’m sorry. You intimidate me.”

Ameryn smiles. She gets up and walks over to where I sit on the desk, putting one of those small, but powerful hands on my shoulder.

“Now,” she says, a laugh in her voice, “whose fault would that be?”

And she vanishes. 


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Ramble back at me...

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