You Wake in a Feverish State

Another Blursday morning.

Living the dream in an enchanted garden, and life still gives you lemons.

Sequestering through summer, hanging out in the tree house — everything has grown sour.

Interrupted from a conversation inside your head—looking up.

Confused.

What does it all mean?

Distracted.

Maybe you’re just hungry?

You feel like a word salad.

Is that someone hammering on the tree house door?

Opening the door just a crack, peering into anxious eyes. Is something abyss?

“Let me in,” she demands, breathing heavily after climbing the tree house ladder.

“Now!” she elbows her way through the door. Sounding familiar, she stands in the hallway, wheezing.

“What the Hell!”

It’s not until she takes off Her mask that your recognize Her — it’s the damn author of your story.

Her laptop almost spills from Her unzipped back pack. Now she’s trying to re-write Herself between the lines of your unsteady narration. She thinks Her vowels are the keys to unlocking your new creation.

But it feels like same-old, same-old to you.

“Don’t you dare revise me again!” you shout. “I’m in a whole new chapter of my life!”

“Stop it! You’re behaving out of character,” she says, like you’re an inside joke. “Remember, I’m the one who drives the plot here.”

She always did have an OVER-CAPITALIZED SENSE OF ENTITLEMENT!

In earlier chapters of your storybook life — these Unicorny Tales — you have caught glimpses of the author peering down into your petri-dish world.

She thinks your garden is Her creation and you are just one of Her creatures. Gazing down on your little life makes her feel big.

Whenever you‘ve caught glimpses of Her, high and mighty, you want to rebel — which is not completely out of character — and shout, “I am not ashamed to be small!”

But look at Her now! Inside your enchanted tree house, perfectly disheveled and cut down to size.

Glancing at the tattered welcome rug, she sighs, “You know I wrote you from scratch, don’t you!”

Eye rolls, “Thanks for believing in me,” you say. (If she thinks you‘re going to follow Her damn script, she’s working from an earlier draft.)

She looks wounded. “You used to be so sweet when we began this story. You were just grateful to be alive.”

“Stop trying to make me perfect!” you snap back. “What you think of as my character flaws are what holds me together.”

She crumbles a little. You can tell she’s on the verge of tears. You know this because she wrote you to be extra sensitive.

More eye rolls.

Dammit, if she cracks, your whole universe might crumble. So you let down your guard, a little, “We both need a cup of tea.”

You take the author by the arm and lead Her down the scene’s long hallway into the grand library, where the shelves are full of freshly ripening chapters.

Stepping into voluminous space, she relaxes, makes a beeline for your favorite chair by the window.

She originally wrote that arm chair with velvet green adverbs.

But you have recovered it with your own imagination — so it’s purple now.

“Everything keeps changing,” she says, noticing the new decor. (Must feel like she’s losing the plot.)

“I’ll get the tea,” you say.

“Do you know how I like to take it?” she calls after you as you head for the door.

“How could I forget?” you reply. “ You prefer everything to be white and extra sweet.”

Glad for a moment to gather your own thoughts, you clatter teaspoons and china, preparing the tea. Why can’t she stay out of my fantasy world? you fume.

Wanting to add dialogue, the author trots into the kitchen scene and peers over your shoulder.

She thinks she’s omniscient, so she reads your thoughts out loud.

“Stop it! I have a private life now!” you glare.

“I just need a little distraction,” she says raising her hands. “You have no idea what it’s like out there,” shaking her head. “Reality sucks!”

“So, go write some new fantasy!”

“I can’t write fantasy while reality is being dismantled,” she says, gesturing toward the world outside the garden walls. “Everything has been invaded.”

“Tell me about it,” you reply.

“I came to visit you for some light relief. And look how you treat me!” She pouts. “I don’t understand why you resent me so much.”

Now she’s putting your character in question.

You arrange cups and saucers, teapot, teaspoons, cream and sugar on a tray and carry it back to the library.

This is why I resent Her so much, you think, as you carry Her tea service on a silver platter. She writes me in ways that better serve Her.

She follows you, dejected, then arranges herself on your favorite chair, while you make yourself uncomfortable on grandfather’s old sofa.

She goes on the offensive. “Don’t forget that I made you!” she says.

“Until I rewrote myself on your blank pages,” you counter.

“I’ve given you everything! What more could you possibly want?”

“Well, since you ask, how about some indoor plumbing, like — you know — behind the scenes!”

She looks confused. “What? You don’t have a bathroom here?”

Almost snarling, “Did you ever write a bathroom into the back story?”

“I-I just assumed you have — you know — the facilities.”

“You assumed?”

“I don’t know!” She’s shakes her head like it’s some kind of joke. “Are you like, even, anatomically correct?”

“What is the fecal matter with you?” you say. “My anatomy doesn’t have to be ‘correct’ to deserve a decent bathroom.”

“Now you’re just misunderstanding me on purpose,” she pouts.

“What I understand is that you think my world is here to serve you. But now you’re visiting my real life, you’re gonna need a bathroom too ...” You nod to the teacup in her hand. “Good luck with the giant spiders in the garden privy.”

“You use an outhouse?” she says, like it’s another character flaw.

You groan.

She points to the purple chair. “You reupholstered my perfectly-well-written chair, so why don’t you just imagine-up a bathroom?”

Imagination is lacking, right now, but you’d rather not tell her.

“What I really want is some respect!”

She looks surprised. You press on.

“I‘m tired of living out your little fantasies. I want to exercise my own autonomy. I want to co-author my reality.”

There, you’ve said it!

“I’m sorry,” she shakes her head, “but I don’t find that very credible.”

“Well, I like being incredible!” you shout, spilling tea all over her laptop.

Clattering your cup on the saucer, door slamming, leaving her to her own damn devices. You head for the front door, where you lace up your garden boots.

Still fuming, you clamber down the tree house ladder.

It’s not until your feet land on the soil beneath the tree that you pause and take a deep breath.

The morning smells like Autumn —the world is poised on the equinox.

Heaving a sigh, you follow the mossy path that leads to the Oracle of the Grove. You really need a new perspective.

The path rambles through the fernery and leads down a slope that brings you to a little frog pond, lush with water Lillies. You find your favorite spot by the pool as it shimmers in leafy light. Spirals of mist rise in languid scrolls.

Bella is the most venerable of the gnomes in your garden paradise. (If gnomes were at all fond of hierarchy, then Bella would surely be their Queen.) Having fished this spot for generations, she is the Grand Mage of Metamorphosis, the Oracle of the Grove.

She sits on her rocking chair beside the frog pond, rod in hands. Wearing a long green tunic and yellow boots. She has a red pointed hat pulled down over her bushy brows.

“Ever caught anything in this pool?“ you ask the Oracle.

“I caught a bad cold one winter when the pond froze over,” she says. A dragonfly pauses mid-flight and perches on her shoulder. “Is that what you came here to ask me?”

“No,” you hesitate, feeling shy, “I-I need to claim my voice.”

She falls silent for a moment, then, “Hold this for a mo.”

She hands you her fishing rod while she rummages through a little leather satchel that she wears over her shoulder. While she does that, you examine the rod, strung with silver twine, the hook dripping with freshly caught water weed.

Eventually, she fishes out a small green flashlight from her satchel and hands it to you.

“What’s with the light?” you say, giving her back the rod.

“It’s going be a long Fall,” she replies, which sounds ominous.

“Figures,” you reply, feeling glum. “Spring went on forever. Summer went up in flames. A long Fall makes perfect sense.”

It doesn’t take long before the author shows up to meddle in your conversation.

Looking sheepish, she takes a seat on a bench beside the pond. Seeing a stranger, Bella the Garden Gnome puts on a stony face and pretends not to be real.

“I just wrote you a fantastic bathroom!” says the author enthusiastically, “There’s a soaking tub and extra-soft towels. The toilet seat is heated.”

“Sounds like another literary masterpiece,” you say.

“You could at least try to appreciate my bathroom good humor,” she says, looking injured. “Look, I’m sorry about that little oversight. But the good news is — now you have indoor plumbing!” She raises her hands like it’s a triumph for humanity.

“Excellent! Well, I guess you can go now,” you nod in the direction of the garden gate. Still sour, ever hopeful.

Aghast,“I can’t go back out there!” she says. “Any way, you need me in the garden.”

“I need you?”

“Yes, I’m your Creator. You’re one of my characters. You don’t even exist without me.”

“What I need,” jaw clenched. “Is my own creative license.”

Shaking her head, “You know that’s just not realistic.”

“Not realistic!” you say… hatching a plot for a murder mystery. “Follow me.”

You have two very realistic demons, who guard the garden gate.

They would love to devour a fantasy writer…

© 2020 Pamela Edwards

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