Conversations with my imagination

We find her laying on the couch, book in hand relishing the sound of nothing. For a rare moment the house is empty, she's a fiend for solitude.

We watch her eyes glide over the words in each sentence forming images in her mind. We could continue watching her for the rest of this piece, but we crave an event. Something has to happen.

The pay off arrives with the scratching of paws on a door. She ignores it. The dog continues to whine outside. What good is a guard dog inside? She justifies to herself. The scratching continues only to be met with more justifications. Truth be told she doesn't wish to cross the laundry that leads to the dog. She trapped a baby skink in there earlier in the day. The whimpers continue until she can no longer concentrate on the words in front of her. She puts the book down and walks to the laundry. Taking a deep breath she opens the door, almost instantaneously jumping back as if expecting the creature to shoot out at her. She waits, cautiously eyeing the space in front of her. After examining the corners and surfaces she takes a tentative step in. So consumed with the phantom skink she fails to notice that the scratching has stopped. She takes a final quick look around the the room before turning to open the final door separating her from the dog. She moves aside as the door swings open, anticipating the large mass of fur and angst to bolt in. When he doesn't she peeks out into the night. Calling his name she scans the darkness for him. She can't leave him out there now. Stepping outside she hesitates slightly, what if he isn't there? Something moves outside our line of vision, she walks towards it wrapping her arms around herself as she enters the darkness.

Moments later the door slams shut. She whips around to expecting to find 'something'. Instead everything is just as she left it. Minus the warm glow from the house. Cautiously she walks back, opening the door she peers in hoping by some miracle to see the dog inside. He's there. So is someone else.

"You shouldn't leave the house alone at night," he's standing next to her dog idly fingering the pages of her book. "Or maybe you were too busy thinking about that lizard by your foot."

She looks down. "Fuck," skipping over it she runs out of the laundry slamming the door behind her. He's laughing. 'Shut up,' she snaps stalking past him. Entering the kitchen she turns the kettle on.

"What are you doing?" He asks peering over her shoulder.

"Making tea."


"I don't want any," he informs her.

"I wasn't making it for you," she informs him.

"you're a terrible host."

"I didn't invite you," she replies watching him stack sugar cubes from his position atop the counter.

"Yes you did, you opened the door,." he says not looking up from his project.

"You're stalking me."

"What else am I meant to do? You don't talk to me anymore."

"I got sick of hearing 'this is terrible' in that whiney tone you love," she responds taking in his attire for the first time that night. Tasteful black, she approves.

"I do have a B-side you know," he offers surveying where the next cube should go.

"if it's 'I wouldn't do that' then I've heard it."

"I still wanted to talk to you though. I know you think about me."

"Of course I do. I created you," she pauses, "well initially."

"I think you miss me. I'm charming," he drawls liking the feel of the word on his tongue.

"You're not even real," she whispers missing the look of hurt on his abstract features.

"Not in the conventional sense no. I still live somewhere though, I consume, I have a world," he recovers.

"You live in my head, you consume my spare time and your world exists on paper."

'I'm your imaginary friend,' he beams.

'No you're a character from one of my stories."

"Except when you think of me outside the story, then I'm your friend," he smiles revealing a series of pointed teeth. She'd sharpened them for him after watching a documentary on sharks.

Tiring of the debate she changes the subject, "So Friend, other than a craving for my company what brings you back to the real world?"

His eyes light up, he thought she'd never ask. Sauntering over to her with all the theatrical ease his nature allowes him, he takes a considered sip of her tea, clears his throat and declares "I'm on a mission." inching closer to her he continues, "the Committee of Imaginary Characters has sent me to save the world"

"I didn't know we were under seige," she replies noticing the multiple reflections of her face on his metallic teeth.

He rolls his eyes, "Not your world. My world."

She remains silent, suddenly aware of a sensation very close to guilt forming in her stomach. Writers block hardly felt like a viable excuse anymore.

"Your characters are dying, they're just fading away daily. It's an epidemic. The longer your pen stays off paper the more of my world disappears."

She's slightly shocked, not by his revelation but by his countenance. She'd designed him to be a character of immaturity and amusement. Until now she hadn't considered him capable of serious thought.

We suddenly view our intruder in black with a greater informed eye. Could he be a potential protagonist?

She bites her lip, there's no way she could write anything close to her regular standard these days. the inspiration just wasn't there. Still she adored her creations, the little independent lives she created and checked up on in her mind. If she was anything other than a writer such habits would be cause for concern. She had no choice, she had to start writing again, if not for her characters than for her future sanity.

His name is Liggen and his world is under threat..