by Lizzy Ford
“It means you haven’t closed yourself off to the world like I have.”
“Interesting perspective,” I muse. “I thought I was doing a good job of cutting myself off.”
“No,” he says with a smile. “You’re salvageable. It’s too late for me.”
His soul is in those simple words. For the first time since we sat down, I notice the weariness in his expression, the hardness of his gaze.
“It’s not like we get second chances, right?” he adds.
“Would you want one?”
“Who wouldn’t?” The words are soft and distracted. He shakes off the spell. “I thought you’d be cynical or guarded.”
“Why?”
“I read all your books.”
“How … oh.” I look away again.
“Yeah.”
“I wrote that one to help people feel less alone,” I say. “Just sometimes freaks me out when someone talks to me about it.”
“It’s difficult to discuss something that personal in public. I think it’s great you took that route to help others.”
He’s kind. As in, genuinely considerate and nice. How odd that I don’t notice that about more people. I’ll add that to my list of traits I like about him.
We fall quiet and study one another. It’s a comfortable silence, filled with the smell of espresso. We’ve dived into the deep end without me realizing it. I don’t feel nervous anymore. He may think I’m not guarded, but I’m almost always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I don’t feel that way with him. He’s a great listener, and he’s open in his answers, even if he claims to be guarded around others. If anything, talking to him is natural.
Which is weird.
“Of the worlds you’ve created, which is your favorite?” he asks.
He asks questions like a fan, but I feel like he’s looking for something in particular, an answer to a question he hasn’t asked aloud.
“I’m partial to Black Moon Draw,” I answer. “I love forests and castles and the ocean. Oh, and the magic.”
“Me, too.”
We continue talking, mostly about books. I start to see what he means about being guarded. The longer we talk, the more he smiles and laughs – but he never completely relaxes and sometimes, his smiles don’t reach his eyes. He leans forward to rest his arms on the table, and he speaks warmly. He even laughs at my terrible puns and jokes.
Where has this guy been all my life? What are the chances he reads all my books?
What made him turn his back on the world?
Before I know it, it’s past noon. We’ve spent three hours talking! It’s a record for a recluse like me – and it’s been easy.
“I think I need to go home and let my fur ball out,” I tell him at last.
“Not a problem,” Jared replies. “You wanna do this again sometime?”
I smile. “Totally.”
“Text me whenever. I’d be happy to meet you again this week, if you’d like.”
He dictates his number. I type it into my cell as if my entire life depends upon not making one tiny slipup. When I’m done, I text him so he has my number.
We part ways with smiles. When I get in the car, I’m ecstatic to the point I want to scream. I’ve never spoken to any man the way I did him, without worrying about him judging me, or feeling like it was okay for me to be my quirky self.
It’s refreshing.
I return home, text my best friend and then tell Wookie all about my morning. After he’s been walked, and we’re both fed, I sit down with tea at my laptop and start to create Jared’s character. I’m not sure what story I’ll include him in, but I want to capture him while he’s fresh in my mind.
When I’ve written down everything I can remember, including how he makes me feel, I break out a pad and pencil and sit down in front of my bookshelf.
“One at a time, Wookie,” I inform the shih-tzu that curls up beside me.
I pick up the first book I ever wrote and begin jotting down the characters’ names, hoping I can figure out what Jared meant about one person who appears in many books. I do this for hours before setting aside my notepad.
Jared’s original question lingers at the back of my mind. I stand up and leave my living room for the balcony and the packed storage closet to the side. Opening the door, I roll my eyes. Sometimes, I outsmart myself.
Other times, I sabotage myself. The closet is disordered and jammed to the point if I move one thing, the whole dam bursts. I’ll have to pull out everything to get to the huge box at the bottom that contains my first writings.
An hour later, I drag the box into my living room.
I open it and begin lifting out the printed copies of stories I wrote over twenty years ago. Some of the pages have begun to yellow around the edges. Some of the stories are kept in manila folders with index cards stapled to them listing the character names. Some stories have been scrawled in notebooks of different sizes. I set each story down, wondering if I’ll remember which was first, when I notice my rudimentary numbering system. I’ve marked each folder with a number indicating the order in which I created the story.
I find a thick file held together with binder clips with a large number two on the front.
“Last of the Power Users.” I read the title with a grin.
Odd that it’s marked as the second. I recall pieces of this story, which I started when I was nine, but nothing before it. I’m not sure what that means. How could I completely forget writing my first story?
I flip through the first pages, groan and blush.
It’s terrible, from the first sentence to the title. I can’t even read it.
The fire alarm shrieks. I jump and look around, as if the fire’s sneaked into my apartment while I was distracted. I set the story down and dart to the balcony. Smoke is rolling off the neighboring building. It’s not likely to reach my building, but the entire complex has to follow the fire evacuation protocol when the signal sounds.
Grabbing Wookie and my laptop, I exit the building, along with the other residents.
We all gather in the parking lot.
I pick out a spot under a tree, set Wookie down, and open my laptop.
We’re stuck outside until eight o’clock. I’m not the only resident pissed off. I love writing, but I also get distracted easily when there’s a lot of activity, so I’m not really getting much done. Wookie is restless, too. He doesn’t get along with other animals and lunges and growls at dogs five times his size.
By the time we’re permitted to return to our apartment, it’s eight thirty. I observe the mess I’ve made around my living room and balcony with a grimace. It’s dark, and I’m still recovering from my latest writing streak.
“Tomorrow, Wookie,” I murmur and pick up the manuscript I had begun reading earlier. I set it on my desk, next to my laptop. I close the balcony door, take a quick shower and hop into bed.
My last thoughts before I fall asleep aren’t of Jared, the fire, or my terrible manuscript.
They’re of a familiar forest in winter, where snow falls softly from a white-gray sky, and a squat castle nestled against the base of a peak.
Cold feet and whispering wake me. On my side, I pull my legs up to my chest. It’s not just my feet that are chilled. My hands, my nose, my knees. Irritated, I reach down for a blanket and find nothing there.
Opening my eyes, I’m blinded by sunlight.
“What the hell?” I blink rapidly and sit up.
The whispering stops, but it’s the sky that holds my attention.
Three suns – one hot white, another deep orange, a third bright yellow – cluster together overhead in the middle of a purple sky.
Purple?
I can’t recall ever having a dream where I’m cold. How is that even possible with three suns?
“Would you like some warmer clothing?” someone asks from behind me.
“No, it’s okay. I’ll wake up soon,” I reply. I’m wearing a long t-shirt and underwear and that’s it, aside from
the knit hat I sleep in to block the lights from the parking lot. I tug the cap down over the tips of my ears.
Usually, when I start to become fully cognizant of my surroundings, it’s a sign I’m about to wake up. I sit and wait. The whispering behind me starts again, and I shiver.
A minute or two passes. A cool breeze smelling of flowers zips past me. I’m seated in a grassy field. A forest starts a few miles away and beyond it, jagged mountains reach the sky. These terrain features are … off. I can’t explain why. It’s obvious the sky and suns aren’t normal, but the mountains? I can’t pinpoint what it is about them and the forest.
Or the grass for that matter. I pluck up a strand of grass and study it. The slender green ribbon is shaped like any other blade of grass.
There’s a tiny man attached to the root.
Startled, I drop it. The man, wearing the blade as a tall hat, darts down my leg and returns to the ground. He burrows into the dirt, leaving nothing but the blade of grass visible above ground.
“That was weird.” When I wake up, I’ll write down the details of this dream so I can use them in a story.
“Are you sure you don’t want a coat?”
I turn to face the speaker. “No, I’m …”
The speaker is a man-sized hedgehog walking on two legs. He’s wearing gloves and nothing else. Beside him are two normal looking people, a man and a woman in oversized tunics belted at the waist and leathery leggings. They carry what appear to be light sabers at their hips. The woman’s hair is in double French braids.
There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach.
“Anytime now,” I whisper and wait to open my eyes for real.
“We have to go,” says the blond teen boy standing near the hedgehog. “Huey, give her some clothes.”
The hedgehog pulls clothing out of a bag, and it’s then I realize why he’s wearing gloves. His spikes line his forearms and disappear into the gloves. If he touches anything without gloves, he’d probably rip it.
I accept the clothing. “No, really. I’m going to wake up soon,” I reply. I hear the bewildered note in my voice. If anyone else does, they ignore it.
I tug on the soft leggings and tunic that matches the clothing the others wear. They definitely help take the chill out of the air.
I tap my arms and pinch myself. I feel the pain like I do the cold.
“Wake up,” I urge myself. It’s either a dream or a psychotic break.
“Don’t forget these,” Huey says wisely and hands me shoes.
Jellies? I accept them. All of them are wearing jelly slippers. They don’t seem appropriate with their outfits. Mine are purple, like the pair I had when I was a kid. I slide them on. They’re cute, but I don’t remember them being this uncomfortable.
A round, flat spaceship zips out of the sky. It slows and lowers itself the last few dozen yards to the ground.
“Oh, no,” I breathe. “Is that the Millen –”
“Centennial Eagle,” the blond teen states.
I’m starting to understand why this story feels familiar. My heart is pounding, and my mouth feels dry.
I’m pretty sure I read this scene yesterday in the opening pages of Last of the Power Users, with the exception that I wasn’t in the story.
“You’re Duke Skyscraper,” I say to him slowly and then look at the brunette. “And you’re Princess Layla.”
“Yes,” Duke says, surprised. “Who are you?”
“I go by L.F. online. It’s a nom –”
“Elf?” Princess Layla asks.
“No. L –”
“He’s here,” Princess Layla whispers, stricken. “We have to leave. Now!”
“You guys go ahead. I’m just going to stay here,” I say.
The hedgehog, Huey, is running towards the spaceship. The teens appear horrified.
Glancing over my shoulder, I realize they’re not looking at me but past me.
I don’t need the Skyscraper siblings to warn me things are about to go downhill.
Another spaceship has landed. This one is square. I’m not even sure how either of these ships fly. They’re so disproportionate.
Just a dream. It has to be.
Then why does it seem real?
Among his many roles, the Red Knight had once been a thief, which gave him a skill set he found particularly useful this morning. He’d texted L.F. several times without receiving a response. He sensed something was amiss and dropped by her apartment, whose address he’d learned about through some serious research about the reclusive author.
“It’s not stalking,” he whispered himself.
And breaking into her apartment wasn’t illegal.
He smiled. If there was one thing he’d come to be, it was persistent in accomplishing his goals. With the unerring determination of a leader and the skill sets of warrior, thief, diplomat, and many others, he understood how far was too far and regularly passed that point without a thought. His skills had helped him settle into this world and adapt to the nuances of day-to-day life quickly. He would never fit in fully, but he could pretend. He carried a cell phone, drove a car, and knew the importance of coffee in the morning. Nothing he possessed was originally his, but he’d done whatever it took, short of violence, to create himself anew in this world.
He’d been through too much to let something like a locked door prevent him from learning what he needed to know.
The lock popped, and he pushed the door open.
A small blur of fur ran to the door and jumped on his knees. The dog whined and scratched at him and then darted to the door.
The Red Knight looked around the apartment. There was no sign of L.F. being present. By the dog’s impatient whine and pawing at the door, he was overdue for going outside.
The Red Knight snapped the dog’s leash to his collar and left. The animal had quite a pull for being no larger than the length of his arm.
When the dog had relieved itself, the Red Knight returned to the apartment. Closing the door, he opened his senses, hoping one of the many instincts and abilities he’d developed over his lifetimes told him what had happened.
The small dog went to the table where a laptop and a file sat. It stared at the seat where its mistress should have been sitting.
Something was wrong. The dog sensed it, too.
The Red Knight crossed to the table and ran his fingers across the cool metal of the closed laptop. The living room was a mess, filled with piles of aged notebooks and manila folders. At first, he thought the mess was a sign of a struggle. Upon closer evaluation, he determined there was some order to the chaos. The notebooks and folders were stacked in a crescent, as if L.F. were taking them out one by one and placing them around her.
He searched the two-bedroom apartment before returning to the table.
The dog hadn’t moved.
The Red Knight sat down and scratched the pooch’s head, assessing the combined living-dining area.
What had she been doing?
Where was she?
His eyes fell to the manila folder beside the laptop, and he opened the one marked with a large numeral two on the front.
Last of the Power Users, read the title. It included a child’s drawing of what looked like a spaceship crashing into the ground. The story had been created on a typewriter.
He flipped to the first page.
* * *
Duke Skyscraper and his sister waited for their spaceship so they could leave the planet and find their uncle who was living on a nearby planet where all the other good people lived.
* * *
The Red Knight’s smile faded. His hand dropped. He didn’t need to read any further. The folder contained the story with his first memories. He knew it by heart.
The piles around the living room took on new meaning. L.F. had returned here after their coffee date and begun searching for something or someone. For him?
He rose and circulated among the folders and notebooks. Each was marked with a number, a rudimentary tracki
ng system whose significance wasn’t yet understood. He plucked up the one marked with a five and flipped it open. Upon reading the first few lines, he closed it and set it on the pile. He recognized this journey, too. It was his second memory, his second life and her fifth story. He sat in silence, pensive, before standing and observing the piles.
She hadn’t taken him on all her adventures. This much he knew from reading her extensive backlist.
He plucked up a notebook marked eight next, followed by a manila folder with an eleven.
“They’re in order in which she wrote them,” he murmured.
His movements quickened as he sought the one folder that held the answer to everything he needed to know. Aided by a curious dog that got in the way as much as anything, the Red Knight searched through the stacks and piles, pulled the rest of the stories out of the plastic tubs, and then stood back, frowning.
Everything was there – except for the original story.
“Do you know where it is?” he asked the dog absently.
The animated bundle of black fur was back at the table.
The Red Knight glanced its way then back. He’d thoroughly examined every notebook and manila folder – except for one.
He opened the folder containing Last of the Power Users and flipped all the way through it. At the very back was a slender, tattered notebook marked with the numeral one.
His heart felt as if it stopped.
He sucked in a deep breath and expelled it. He’d waited for this day for many lifetimes and had nearly given up hope he came from anywhere. With as much anticipation as anxiety, he picked up the notebook and opened it.
The first page contained one word: snow.
He turned to the second.
It was blank, as was the next and the next.
The entire notebook was blank. He went through it again, growing angry. Why would she keep a blank notebook among the other stories? Why was nothing written in it aside from one word of no significance to him at all? Yes, he’d seen snow during his lifetimes, but what did that have to do with his origins?
He dropped the notebook on the table in frustration. He had no idea where to go next.
The Red Knight stood up and began to pace.