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All of a sudden, “Pop,” their out, “Gone.”

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The dead suns of the sky give their last light to look upon a man fall into honest dreams.

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I take it that the continuous changes in how Melomothamuel's name is written are on purpose?

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“I’m not saying it was you—am I passing blame here? No. Conclusions. I’m just trying to draw some conclusions,” all of which end up, impressively, spitting out every syllable of your name.

“A dollar on the knight. You’re just pissing with him; no way can he do nothing like that;” smugly intruded a man who should probably be speaking a hell of a lot less, “look at those pretty mittens of his.”

“Shut up, Archer. Just shut up. Hear of ropes? We got a few here; pretty handy things—useful for shutting a few throats. I’m not messing with you! It’s real, no smokes and mirrors, sir. The man on T.V. said not to try at home, but damn me, I’m feelin’ a little naughty.” Say something to that, say something. Speak up.

“I was not at fault. I don’t know who did, but I had done nothing to cause any harm,” replied Mel with a virtuousness waltzing his words about the room. “I’ll speak no more of it. If you cannot believe me, then there will be no persuading of what you believe.” Pretentious jerk. “It’d be false of me.”

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“I only pulled a couple from the stack.”

“S’fine—got into the moment, anyhow, Mel; I really only needed one. Pen?” As in the on you are holding quite tightly to that plated chest of yours?

“You have my pen.”

Uh, no? What? You have your pen. “What?”

He coughs—nervous. Confident I would understand. There is excitement, a sense of joy—he kids. Nothing but a joke. “Hilarious. The pen, now. Less breaking of your own Fourth-Wall.” Bland trilogy; complete fantastical garbage. “Dawn’s not trash.”

“Of course not.” Shut up, Mel.

“Shut up, Mel. Now, show me those pretty pits of yours.” You may feel a slight pinch. I sincerely doubt it, though. “Pushpins make me feel good.”

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“We need a better transition.” More inherent, less rash. “I’m thinking: tumor. Tumors are fun, right? They’re ‘in?’”

Dawn’s hand moves. Fingers held up softly against her chin. A flex in her left ankle as she lifts her heels on her toes; she wants to speak. Refuses. Get that thought off your head—I wouldn’t mind a new perspective. You think the old guy’s going to open his mouth? Sense flows from that man like clumps of hair through a faucet.

“I’m solid that fantasy tales don’t ever involve tumors. That would be the worst plot device ever conceived by anyone—ever.” Shut up, Archer. “Now, Leprosy? Elegant move. And—fairies can’t heal lepers. It’s practically fact.”

“Y’know, it’s finally happened.” Now we got to go back. Got to change everything; you change one detail, “One damned detail—now you got to change everything!” When was the last time? Guy was brooding. Way too much brooding; completely out of character. “The entire story was him batman-ing the world like Fitts to a bag in the wind. You know what I had to do? Changed the entire theme—kept the character.” Half-a-year. Five months bashing in keys with my forehead.