It's getting late. The house is silent. The gentle patter of rain serves as a backdrop to your aloneness. Your [[husband]] is probably still at the book party. You do hope he's alright. but no matter. it's time to [[work]].You stand up slowly and walk over to the door to turn on the light. You flinch at the sudden brightness. well okay. what are you? a poet? then [[poe]]. [[write]].It's been raining for a while. You hope the roads don't flood. [[back|9 pm]]once upon a midnight dreary while i pondered weak and weary over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore wow you're so clever you crack yourself up sometimes [[ok time to work|write]]You pull the old typewriter over. Some days you write by hand. Today is not one of those days. [[take a bottle of absinthe]]You pull the old typewriter over. Some days you write by hand. Today is not one of those days. take a bottle of absinthe [[take a sip of those absinthe dreams]] You pull the old typewriter over. Some days you write by hand. Today is not one of those days. take a bottle of absinthe take a sip of those absinthe dreams distract yourself from those screams [[of the horrors beneath]] You pull the old typewriter over. Some days you write by hand. Today is not one of those days. take a bottle of absinthe take a sip of those absinthe dreams distract yourself from those screams of the horrors beneath at this point you should probably clarify that you are //not// actually imbibing a liquid with a high alcohol content. you are writing a [[poem. come on.]]//you know, you usually write when nobody is looking.// You pull your hands away. Better to wait until you don't feel [[someone's eyes staring into your back]].You stay where you are. Why not pathologize your psychosis? (that means you pretend you have more problems than you actually do. though that is debatable) [[nongreet]]You sit there all by your lonesome //this is hella poetic// no it's not. A knock on the door. [["come in"]]Time passes. You hear the slam of a car door. The jingling of keys. The front door creaking open. Your husband's home. [[greet him]]"Come in," you rasp. Allen opens the door. He looks a bit scared. You could tell him to relax, but honestly it would take too much [[energy]]. [[wait for him to talk]]honestly everything takes too much energy. especially talking. you wish that there was a machine that could change thoughts into speech and then you'd fill the whole //world// with your words. but right now, you're really glad that you have [[allen|"come in"]]Allen fidgets. "I feel bad about these book parties, every time." You quickly test his statement to see if it contained anything of use. It fails your test. You ignore him. "It feels too much like lying. I'm taking your credit." //Why does he always say this? Every single time?// [[speak]]You clear your [[throat]]. "It's my name on the book anyway." //your husband changed his name for you, [[you know]]. "**A. Cander**". the name on the covers. it could be either of you. it's one of those ambiguous lies that you enjoy.// You shake your head, impatient. You almost feel alive again. Alive, like years ago when he was in college and you persuaded him not to work and to go to concerts instead. And you both had so ravenously devoured so many books. You look at him and smile. "Why don't you tell me about that party?" you say. [[He looks at you, surprised.]]//it feels like there's frogs in there// [[back|speak]]yes, you know. why would you think that you didn't know? how odd. [[back|speak]]Allen blinks twice. He doesn't know what to say. Just as well, because you're getting tired, anyway. "Maybe you shouldn't publish this garbage any more," you say quietly. You turn away and stare blankly at your paper. Allen hesitates at the doorway, but then he leaves. [[a while later...]]"I..." Allen is at a loss for words. You start making a hand motion, but give up. Your arm flops limply to your side. "You don't have to publish this stuff." "I know." Allen scratches the side of his arm. "[[Remember|remember]] how it all started?" You were reading an editorial about Allen's press conference, just skimming through it with no real interest. Something catches your eye. //Mr. Cander refused to answer all questions about what he is working right now. "I don't want to be bound by these words," he said. "It's very important to have the freedom to make a different choice if I need to." Everyone is painfully aware that he has not shared any poems for more than six months. Of course, no one is rude enough to remark on this during the first-year anniversary of THE book of the decade. However, despite his impressive feat, Mr. Cander seemed slightly preoccupied and nervous throughout. Understandable, as he had always been modest to a fault. Imposter's syndrome, perhaps? At the end of the event, Mr. Cander had smiled bravely. "My next volume will be even better," he said.// his, no- your- next volume. your next volume that doesn't exist? none of the garbage you write passes muster. you [[remember]] how it all started.honestly you're not in the mood for a drawn out flashback like seriously basically you were being all recluse while allen went to university and he had to write an epic in the style of homer or something and he was really stressed because university so you wrote it for him and you convinced him to hand it in (that was back before you gave up on talking. also he wasn't quite so stubbornly moralistic either.) the professor gave him a bad grade because it wasn't in the right format but other people started reading it and it turned into A Thing and suddenly he turned famous for being so good at poetry and you sort of threatened him into not telling anyone about you because you **really don't** want to be known. <<if visited("stop.")>>[[nothing would be scarier|convo]<<endif>> <<else>>[[persist.]]<<endif>> You sigh, ripping out the sheet of paper and shoving the typewriter away. No use. None of it is any use. You crumple the paper and toss it at the pile made of the rest of the horrible poems you've written. The papers shift and one of the sheets rolls down the side. [[pick it up]]You lean over and pluck the crumpled sheet up from your desk. You glare at it with disgust. [[eat it]]you used to be able to finish things. ... well, you used to be able to do a lot of things. [[back|well]]You squeeze your eyes shut and stuff the paper into your mouth. The taste of your writing washes over you, all full of dark shadows and sharp green edges. The poem is something about the void. About losing everything, or feeling like everything was lost even though it was right there. It was awfully pretentious. You don't understand why //anyone// would ever even //look// at your stuff. [[well]] "Audrey, I'd be glad to." [[listen]]switch pov **audrey** ____________ ------------ [[allen]]loading... [[done]]It's raining. You're supposed to go to a book party. It's a celebration for you. Because a million copies of your book had sold in one year. Critics were calling it "phenomenal". A "delicacy for the layperson". Of course, you haven't written anything. Audrey did. [[You still feel bad about that.]]The host sees you and comes running over. "Mr. Cander!" she calls. "I'm so glad that you could make it." [["Thanks."]]"Thanks," you say. You smile. You're too good at pretending. It's kind of strange how easy it is to lie, until you don't even have to think about it anymore. [[Make a speech]] [[Head toward the reception area]] [[Mingle with other people]]You walk to the table in the middle of the ballroom. There were piles of books on it, the pages open, displayed. Some sheets were lying around, folded into origami. [[Grab one]] You glance at the books. Probably a good idea to take some, now that you're too paranoid to go to bookshops. The last few times you've been to one, there was always someone who recognized you, who started to ask friendly, prying questions. [[Take some]]You should probably talk to some people. It's //your// party, after all. Someone in an ill fitting tuxedo flits over to you. [[Greet him|greet1]]A speech?! You must be kidding. You convince yourself that you are kidding. "Nice to see you, Allen," the COO of your publishing company says. You jump a bit, surprised. You didn't know that they would be here. Your fame- no, //Audrey's// fame- is increasing so fast that you feel like you won't ever be able to catch up. The COO is looking at you expectantly. "Wow, hey," you mumble, and beat a hasty [[retreat]].It's kind of strange how easy it is to lie, until you don't even have to think about it anymore. [[Make a speech|no speech]] [[Head toward the reception area]] [[Mingle with other people]]//No way.// How dense are you? [[back|retreat]]You pick up a crane and take a bite, the thick creamy paper dissolving in your mouth. They had spared no expense on this party. The taste was grandiose, sweeping, like little fireworks exploding on your taste buds. There was an unmistakable impish aftertaste. //Shakespeare.// //A Midsummer Night's Dream//, if you weren't mistaken. [[back|Head toward the reception area]]But you were getting hungry, and you don't have much use for your junk poetry anyway. There is no way you'd publish any of them. Especially since you can't even bring yourself to [[finish]] any of them. The sounds of the clock were loud in the empty house. [[tick tock]].You scan the books' spines. There was a good selection. On the other side of the table, stacks of [[Audrey's]] different works were arranged into an extravagant pyramid display. The spines were lined with gold. A [[limited edition]], you assume. The top book was open and you could see that a few pages were already missing. You eye the people around you furtively. [[Take some books already]]You see Audrey look up. She frowns. "Gross," she mutters. You bite your lip and ignore her. [[back|Take some]]You couldn't imagine how Audrey's style could possibly fit with the stifling aroma of literary haute couture. But of course, what you thought didn't really matter. [[back|Take some]]You take some [[books]] and stuff them into your knapsack. If anyone saw, they didn't comment. It would simply be bad form to accuse the esteemed poet of stealing freebies. [[look up]]You don't tell Audrey what they were. You want to surprise her. Also, she's looking a bit bored. Maybe time to pick up the pace? [[back|Take some books already]]You were zipping up the bag when you look up and see a young boy, his smile wider than his freckled face. His eyes light up. "Mr. A. Cander!" he yells, his voice too loud. "So nice to meet you!" "Call me Allen," you mumble. He looks up at you. "Allen," he says sheepishly. "Your poems are the best! My greatest dream is to write half as good as you." [[time to run|"Thanks."]]"Hi," you say genially. You hold out your hand to shake. He looks up at you, wringing his hands. He stares down at your outstretched arm. You both stand in silence. If he tried to shake your hand now, it would be exceedingly [[awkward]] for both of you. You drop your hand down to your side. Your fingers twitch a bit. [[Introduce yourself]]Audrey yawns. "Who cares," she says. You stifle a smile. You haven't seen her this alive in ages. [[back|greet1]]"Good evening. I'm Allen. Cander," you say, a little self-consciously. Your conversation partner shakes his head quickly. "Sorry," he says, barely audible. "I know who you are," he continues, too loud. He winces. [[Reassure him]]"Don't worry," you say, making your voice soft and calm like the one you use for [[Audrey]]. You lean in like you're divulging some great secret. "I'm a normal person, just like you," you say. It seems to work. He looks visibly more relaxed and gives a strangled laugh. "People like you. Seem to have everything perfectly worked out. So genius." You shake your head. "You can't imagine just how clueless I am most of the time," you say. You shiver. That was [[too close to real life]] for comfort.Did she bristle? In indignation? Jealousy? Or were you imagining it, hoping for her reaction? You bite your lip. "Am I boring you?" you ask quietly. She smiles. Were her eyes a bit distant? "No, keep going," she says. [[back|Reassure him]]The man bites his lip. You're a bit startled when you realize that this man looked exactly the same way as you feel. Also, he had that same nervous habit as you. And you don't even know his name. He looks down at his feet. "I could never enjoy Tolstoy," he says with an air of a great confession. He looks at you, begging you not to ridicule him. [["Tolstoy? I never really liked him either."]] [["Well, everyone's different, I guess."]] [["Really? Hmm. So what do you think of my book?"]] [["No way. What kind of person are you?"]]His eyes widen in surprise, then gratitude. You hope that someday, someone would tell him that his face was like an open book. One where you already know what's going to happen even before you taste it. But that someone wouldn't be you. It'll just make everything awkward again. You wonder if you carried your emotions on your sleeve too. Probably not, seeing how no one knows your [[secret]] yet. You make small talk for a few minutes, then part [[on good terms]].He blinks and stares at his feet some more. "Yeah. I guess." "Hey, don't worry about it. We all have our secrets, right?" you joke. He looks up at you, a bit wary. You can tell that he wants to ask what your secret is, but there is no way you'd let him. You change the subject and [[leave|okay terms]] after a few minutes of protracted small talk.He blinks twice and you can see his mind reeling from the speedy change of topic. "I think it's very good," he says finally. You feel like you've [[disappointed]] him, somehow. His face crumples. He looks devastated. You roll your eyes and leave. //"No."// Huh? "No," Audrey says, again. "You didn't say that. There is no way you would've said that." You try to stop yourself from laughing, but a mad giggle escapes. "You're right, honey. You know me too well." Audrey glares at you. "Don't lie to me. Try again." [[back|too close to real life]]Audrey sighs. "Can you be any more melodramatic?" "Yes," you deadpan. "Huh," Audrey says, looking up. "Didn't I want to not talk for some reason?" You stare at her in confusion. She shrugs. "Whatever. It's stupid anyway. Doesn't matter." [[back|"Tolstoy? I never really liked him either."]]There's a new buoyancy to your step. You've [[helped]] someone today. Even if you kind of had to lie to do it. You can do this sociallish thing. You're sure of it. Someone in a flowing evening gown strides over to you. [[Greet her|greet2]]You feel like you could've done better, but you didn't want to lie. After all, you still have principles. On second thought, lying shouldn't even be a problem for you anymore. Someone in a flowing evening gown strides over to you. [[Greet her|greet2]]That could've gone better, you think. It was a really rough attempt at changing the topic. But you were not very good at being [[social]] anyway. Someone in a flowing evening gown strides over to you. [[Greet her|greet2]]"Good for you," Audrey says. You feel like she is definitely thawing. You haven't heard that sarcasm since your college years, you think. [[back|on good terms]]"Good evening," she says. She [[takes your hand and bows|motion]] in an elegant, practiced motion. "I'm Amanda Pentrose, head writer of the Dread Gazette. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Allen Cander." You try to think of something suitably sophisticated to say. You wonder if "as do you" was appropriate, but you take too long thinking and the moment passes. "I am pleased to inform you that you are being featured in next week's issue of the Dread Gazette as one of ten Most Promising Young Poets," Amanda continues. You try to hide your [[surprise]], but fail. [[Accept graciously]]"Wow. Who cares," Audrey says, rolling her eyes. You feel like she is definitely thawing. You haven't heard that sarcasm since your college years, you think. [[back|disappointed]]"What," Audrey says. You grin. "It gets weirder," you say. [[back|greet2]]"Dre-ead Ga//zette//." Audrey draws out the syllables. "Pretty prestigious paper. It's printed on expensive stock, too. Has crushed robin's egg shells. Gives it a blue tint." Well, you just learned something new. [[back|greet2]]"At you, or with you?" Audrey smiles and raises her eyebrows. "Maybe you could've found out if you were there," you tease back. She falls silent and stares at the wall. [[Whoops.|Accept graciously]]"Wow. That's great. Thanks." You stand there, wide-eyed. You realize that you're not being very sophisticated. "Uh. Young poets, yeah? Me? Wow." That. Wasn't much better. But Amanda just [[laughs]]. "I've taken a personal interest in you. Your writing is very emotional. Full of power," she says, making a fist. Her amber eyes glinted. "It's a welcome contrast from the stilted, artificial garbage that's everywhere these days." She rolls her eyes. She suddenly reminds you of [[Audrey|aa]]. Amanda's expression turns serious. "Please excuse me for being rude, but... I can't help but notice that you haven't published anything in almost a //year//. Of course, the greatest poets sometimes need some extra time to perfect their masterpieces, yes?" Your heart jumps into your throat and you [[forget to smile|proposal]] for a second. Audrey sighs and says nothing. Well, you've managed to upset her, maybe. [[back|Accept graciously]]"Y-yes," you finally say. "I'm, working on it." Amanda smiles again, even wider this time. "That's great to hear! Well, if you can send me a little //teaser// of your new book, an //exclusive// little sneak peak, that would be wonderful." She [[winks]]. "You have many fans, you know. They're all //dying// for more of your writing." Your eyes dart to your left and your right. There's too many people here. You feel [[trapped]]. Audrey scowls. "What a bitch," she mumbles. [[back|proposal]]"That's no problem," you say, quickly. "No problem. No problem at all. I'll send one of my new poems to you. Thank you. Thank you." Amanda nodded, looking very [[pleased]] with herself. She took out a little sheet of paper and scribbled her contact info in a flowing script. You take it, and put the scrap of paper in your mouth with trembling hands. You take out your pocketbook, and, sure enough, Amanda's business address was written as the last entry. And, sure enough, you'll have to figure out how to [[deal with this]]."You should've punched her," Audrey says. You hold back a laugh. You can't help but imagine Audrey, in her scuffled black coat and unruly hair, punching such a [[sophisticated lady|trapped]].Audrey coughs and interrupts your story. "There's no poems that you can give her." "I know," you say. "But..." You glance at the pile of crumpled papers in the corner of the room. Audrey shakes her head. "There's no poems that you can give her. And there //will// be no poems." [[You shake your head.]] But you felt like you had to [[try]]. You suddenly remember how, years ago, Audrey used to be happy. She wrote so many wonderful poems and convinced you that it was okay for her to basically write your thesis for you. After your thesis won that award, she [[burned everything]].You had a little trouble convincing the cops that it was an accident. The fact that Audrey kept pacing back and forth silently, like a ghost, didn't help. The whole incident made her reclusive, paranoid, confrontational... [[Nothing like how she used to be.]]You've missed her so much. [[...]]Really. You've missed her so much, and, why? Why does it have to be like this? ... [["Allen?"]]You look up with a start and blink the tears out of your eyes. Audrey is staring at you, her expression unreadable. "Allen, what are you thinking?" she asks quietly. [[You take a deep breath.]]The words tumble out without you thinking about them. [[All those things you mull over during sleepless nights.|mull]] "None of this had to happen, did it?" You say. "It's all because of that stupid thesis. I was so worried about getting caught with cheating. Instead I got an //award// for your work. Now we have this big dumb house and //everyone's// chasing after us." You sigh. "You used to be happy," you finally say. "And [[now you're not.]]"All those things you haven't had the courage to talk to Audrey about. God, you used to talk to her about everything. What happened? [[back|You take a deep breath.]]Audrey is still looking at you. "I'm not the same person I was," she says slowly. She gave a [[wan smile]]. "Why don't you finish your story?" You nod. [["Okay."]]You get the feeling that Audrey doesn't really know how to deal with displays of emotion. It wasn't really her thing. [[back|now you're not.]]It's a little hard for you to get back into the flow of your story. But there is one more thing that you have to tell Audrey. She might not like it, though. She seems a little more receptive now than before. So it might be okay. [[Start.]]"Audrey, there was one more thing that happened." You look up at her, and bite your lip. "What was it?" Her face is still neutral. [[Tell her.]]You were trying to leave. You've had enough of that book party. You were just grabbing your coat when you hear the clicking of heels that abruptly stop right behind you. You turn around, and [[instantly regret it]].It's the COO of your publishing company. "Hello, Allen," they say. "Please call me Rowan." You stare at each other in silence. "I work as the Chief Operating Officer of-" "I know," you interrupt nervously. "I know who you are." They look at you with mild curiosity, and you feel a burning guilt for interrupting. You realize that they're very good at being both forceful and polite at the same time. They have to be. After all, they're the COO of one of the big three [[publishing companies]]. You almost start going on a mental tangent regarding publishing companies, but the COO starts speaking again. "Allen," they say. \\to be continued//