Cigs and Strings.

by Sleestack

Dress.

I am ecstatic. I am very partial to the removal of teeth. I have always believed to remove the teeth and and to remove the nails of a creature is to completely rid it of all of its willpower. Do the small creatures truly have 'nails,' though? This is a thought I do not wish to ponder farther.

I float towards him, as he laughed at his writing, pounding his fist against the table.

"Oh, SHIT, man!" he coughed, ash and tobacco spraying into the air. "This is just too great. Freud would have a field day with this piece of work." He went back to laughing, and pounded his fist against the typewriter, his fist perfectly spelling out the word 'ARSENIC.'

I gently run my tendrils against the keys, gently avoiding his fist. He looked away from himself, embarrassed.

"Oh my god... would y-you shut up?" His face grew hot and red, partially out of anger, partially from being flustered. I sink my strings between the keys of the typewriter and start sopping up any trace of pain I can find.

"No, no, let me." He put his cigarette down and placed his hand on his chin. "Eet seems to me, zat you intendet for zees story to be a cute and harmless vone, but, ven the possibility of possibility of your stupeed leetle pet-play fetish caim to light, vell, you vouldn't vant your personal life to verk its vay your vriting, no? So, instead of moving away from the possibility of it, you just decide 'Let's fucking make this as disturbing as possible, so no one thinks for a second I was attracted to the idea of what was going on in this scene.'"

I reach into the story and feel around the bloody, open gums of the pink creature. I slide my strings into its nerve endings and wait for the sweet sensation of its pain to glide up into my core and replenish me.

"Whatever! At least I-I tried to make mine have some sort of romance in it, instead of awkward, bumbling conversation that skirts around the slightest possibility of a romantic attraction! At least I-I'm not afraid to analyze the relationships between two characters and see how the two of them might come to the conclusion that they want to open themselves up to the vulnerability of love. Y-you just make romance stories about characters too afraid to admit their feelings, or self-destructive relationships, or people too selfish to realize they might like someone other than themselves, it's actually a little disgusting, y-you know that? Any random person could write a story about the most random of strangers falling in love, and yet y-you seem to not be able to grasp the simplest concept of what may possibly the oldest, most classic of all literary genres. Y-you should be ashamed to call y-yourself a writer."

I feel nothing. There is no physical anguish in this creature. Out of anger, I grab it by the base of its skull and throw it against the bars of its cage. The creature, the cage, and everything else in the story collapse and disintegrate into nothing more than letters and punctuation marks.

He rolled his eyes at himself and took a quick of his cigarette. "People fall into ruts. At least my rut is a creative one. Sparks writes the same story about two white people falling in love and he sells millions."

The sedative. It prevented the creature from feeling pain. That fucking brat.

"Yeah, but that's because he always rewards his readers with actual romance."

I quickly search the scattered text for the line about the watering eyes. Tears from hurt feelings can usually only satiate me when I'm slightly peckish, but at this point, I will take anything I can get.

"Listen, you don't walk into love. You fall in love. It's a risk, always. There's no safety in love. Sometimes, you fall into it. Sometimes you fall on your face. What's one story about missing your chance forever next to the unrealistic thousands of stories about people who get it?"

I wrap my tendrils around a single comma and prod into it. It's almost completely dry. I suck up the smallest amount of betrayal. My strings shake from the nutrients, but it does nothing but make me more ravenous.

"Sure, a few stories about missed chances is fine. But y-you can't tell me that all attempts at love are fruitless!"

I tear my strings out from the typewriter and slam them against the keys, perfectly spelling out the word 'CYANIDE.'

"Whose life have you been living?"

He sighed. There really was no reasoning with himself, and he knew it. I begin to twitch from hunger.

He rolled the paper to a new line. "I'll write the next chapter."

"Y-you sure?"

He nodded. "We only have two members of the Main Six left, right? Purple and White?"

"Oh, um, by the way, there is something y-you should know."

"Huh?"

"Y-you were laughing for a really long time."

"How long?"

"There's been a new season of the show, a movie, and another season."

"...well shit."

"Twilight's got wings now."

"Well, that is just fucking stupid."

He started clacking away at the keys.

---

Author's Note:

I'll write the actual story part of this later.