This and That : A Novella (and Other Prose Writings)

By Todd Mikosh

This is the novella, written in 1989, along with its second, third, and fourth drafts, all the surviving notes that were written for it, and several other unpublished writings. Also included in this volume are several shorter prose selections form Mangled Doves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387744466

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This and That : A Novella (and Other Prose Writings)

THIS AND THAT:  A NOVELLA (AND OTHER PROSE WRITINGS)

By Todd Mikosh

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Copyright  2018 by Todd Mikosh

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or process—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and Lulu.com.  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Second Edition

Todd Mikosh ([e-mail])

Lulu.com

ISBN No. 978-1-387-74446-6

Dedicated to Portland Beverly Tanis, who inspired me to pursue my literary dreams with two simple words:  It’s time!

Other books by Todd Mikosh

Mangled Doves*†

(ISBN 978-0-557-30180-5)

Appearing to Study Particle Physics*†

(ISBN 978-1-304-54149-9)

Captain of the Watch (Draft) *†

(ISBN 978-1-304-67329-1)

Verses for the Vixen (and other poems)*

(ISBN 978-1-312-94642-2)

*Available at Lulu.com and that other website that sells things

(because the iTunes bookstore won’t carry items which mention a competing website)

†Also available in e-book editions

THIS AND THAT: A NOVELLA

Chapter One

Business was slow; Jan had given up trying to chat on the phone because whenever she picked it up, a customer walked in.  So she settled herself in for a long night of staring out of page one at the reader.  As soon as she noticed that the reader was watching her, she turned to retreat behind the counter.

Good evening was her standard greeting, but tonight she chose, Are you finding the weather pleasant?  It was an appropriate greeting, considering she ran an umbrella shop.

It is perfectly fair for the author to not describe the street in front of the shop, since there is no street in front of the shop.  The only places that exist in this story are those in which the story takes place.  After closing for the night, she will leave through the backdoor.  There is a side street there, which she will use for the drive home.

The front door opened as a man emerged from the sidewalk.  He was rather stocky, almost rotund.  The bell hanging above the door sang its nauseatingly familiar song through the lazy silence of a Saturday afternoon.  The man took long, deliberate steps toward the counter, looking around the store as though he had never seen it.

Jan enjoyed the company of this man, whose name is being withheld for reasons unknown even to the author (his name will be divulged in the next paragraph).  Jan smiled weakly at him as she spoke.  Hey, stranger!  Where’ve you been?  Her eyes gestured toward the reader with a hint of warning.

The man turned to look in the direction she was gesticulating about.  He smiled warmly.  Hi, reader!  My name’s Henry Knillson.  I suppose you’re wondering why this story is written so strangely.  Well, it’s a long story; I’m in it, so is Jan.  There is a certain word that will occur only once in this entire book, but I can’t tell you what it is because then its one occurrence will be used up.

Jan poked his elbow.  Henry leaned over the counter, turning his ear to her so she could whisper in it.  She mumbled something unintelligible to him; she spoke so quietly that the author couldn’t hear what she was saying.  Perhaps it was something of a sexual nature.  Then again, it could be vital information that she wanted him to tell the reader.

After Jan finished whispering in Henry’s ear, she looked hopefully out at the reader, waiting for Henry to betray her secrecy.  He stood up straight, gathering the information in his head.  The effort of trying to make the message clear curled his brow.  After several minutes during which Jan fidgeted nervously, Henry looked up with the intent of speaking.  But, with a start, he turned to Jan, who, in turn, leaned forward to listen to his whispers.

As she leaned forward, Jan’s blouse fell slightly open.  This gave the reader an ample opportunity to notice that Jan wasn’t wearing a bra.  Her skin was smooth, supple, the stuff that dreams are made of.  Her large breasts pushed luringly against the thin fabric, so that peeking down her blouse became unnecessary.  Those shameless lechers out there reading this stuff should be ashamed of themselves.

The author leaned forward to listen in, but couldn’t quite hear everything.  What little he did hear was broken fragments.  They are listed below in screenplay format.

Henry:  . . .set out the plot . . .

Jan:  Don’t give away too much!

Henry:  Why not . . .the story.

Jan:  "Well, we can’t just . . .without the word . . .leaving the reader

blind."

Henry:  . . .what to say.

Jan:  . . .about little . . .to string the . . .along.

Suddenly realizing that the author was listening in, they stood up straight.  Henry turned to face the reader.

I have to tell you a few things about this story.  I’d rather not, because it would give the story away, making the remainder of the book useless.  But the author would be infuriated beyond measure.  He would take his wrath out on me by doing away with me in some horrifying manner later in the book.  After some thought, he added, The author might just do away with me in some horrifying manner later in the book anyway.

A note from the author:  He’s right; I might.

Henry began to perspire nervously.  His speech became troubled as he forced the words out.  "The author gave me instructions prior to page 1 telling me that since he can’t use second person, that I should use second person.  I do feel a great sense of authority in knowing that there is something I can do that the author can’t.  I can talk to you, but he is required by the laws of grammar to refer to you as ‘THE READER.’3

"I’m warning you; you don’t know what you’re getting into.  This is not a funny story.  It is a tragedy, written by some lunatic who—Oopps!  I shouldn’t have said that.  If anyone asks you, I didn’t just call the author a lunatic.

"Anyway, I wanted to clarify a difference of opinion that will make this story much more sensible to you, the reader.  It is not a story for THE story’s sake, but a story for A story’s sake.  The characters contained herein are not the characters of this story, but characters of other stories.  Some of them are creations of other authors.  Others are real people who are dead, used primarily because dead people can’t sue.  For example, I was at first meant to be Cary Grant.  After some thought, the author decided that I should not be Cary Grant because Cary Grant was a fine actor.  Fine actors are not good subjects for characters in books, because sometimes they are as fictional as the people they portray. (This, however, may not be the case with Cary Grant.)

"Besides, I could not be an actor—especially a dead one-because if this book were made into a movie, that actor would be the only person who could play my part, but he’d be dead.  Living actors are wiped away from consideration for two reasons.  First, they’re alive.  They can sue.  Secondly, what if they die?  Then the book can’t be made into a movie.

"Isn’t it neat the way every new paragraph of my dialogue starts with quotes, but the paragraphs don’t end with them until I’m done speaking?  The author tells me that it’s correct to do that.

You must be wondering why I’m engaged in a direct dialogue with you.  I’m supposed to tell you a little about the story before we go on to Chapter Two.  Basically, the way this author operates is that he, by some moment of inspiration, comes up with a scene, then he tries to develop the problem of the story, the conflict.  He hasn’t figured out what the conflict will be yet, but I can guess that I’ll have a major part in it.  I’m already being painted as the bad guy.

Henry suddenly clambered over the counter, ripping Jan’s blouse off.  Jan fell to the floor; Henry landed on top of her.  (Just kidding, that didn’t really happen.)

Jan pushed Henry off of her.  She stood up, looking at him in disgust.  What did you do that for!?  Give me my blouse back! (Oh, well. I guess it did.)

Henry slowly stood up.  I’m sorry.  The author made me do it.  He handed her blouse back, staring lustfully at her.

Feeling Henry’s hungry eyes all over her upper torso annoyed Jan, so she turned around while putting her blouse back on. 

Henry turned to the reader again with an embarrassed face. Sorry, where was I?  He looked at the floor for a moment, trying to regain his composure.  Oh, yes.  The word.  The word that will occur only once in this book is not an uncommon one, as you might have suspected.  It is actually a very common word; the reader with a good eye can figure out which word it is with a little attention.  Let me give you a little hint.  He leaned forward to whisper in the reader’s ear.  This is useless, since the author hears everything that leaves the page. Have you noticed the slightly excessive use of semi-colons, the occasional two sentences that could easily be combined using a conjunction?

As Henry said the word conjunction, an entire rack of rather expensive umbrellas fell down in the rear of the store.  Jan jumped, then hurriedly walked over to pick up the fallen merchandise; Henry turned slowly to see what accident had just happened.  He quietly muttered, I guess I wasn’t supposed to give that hint.

The bell above the front door rang frantically, noisily.  A messenger ran into the store.  After handing a piece of paper to Henry, he rushed out again.

Henry looked at the note briefly.  He spoke quickly, in measured tones.  This just handed to me, the author has decided what the conflict of the story will be.  In disgust, he tossed the paper up in the air.  Walking towards the door, he added But he won’t tell us what it is!  I tell ya, Jan.  I don’t even know why we’re bothering with this chapter.  All we’ve gotten accomplished here is that you work in an umbrella shop with no street in front of it, this is a strange story in which we talk directly to the reader, the author tampers with the story—sometimes he just barges into the room with us—he’s threatened to kill me, he made a mess of your store, he made me rip your blouse off . . . He stopped speaking in exasperation, not knowing what to say next.  With a noisy shrug, he stormed out onto the sidewalk.

Jan ran up to the front door.  Opening it, she leaned out. See you in chapter three!  She called to Henry.

From down the sidewalk, Henry could be heard fuming, You mean I have to do Chapter Two alone!?  Great!!  That’s just great!  What’ll I do?  I haven’t got any material for a solo chapter.

Jan let the door close carefully.  She ran back to the counter, picking up a script from one of the lower shelves.  She read it for twenty seconds before replacing it underneath the counter.  She looked up, directing her attention to the reader.  Poor Henry. He’s having a bad day.  He got his monthly bill early—from Visa!  She looked annoyedly in the author’s direction.  Stop that! Returning her attention to the reader, she continued.  Well, it’s been an interesting first chapter, she doctored her torn blouse before continuing.  I hope you’ll like Chapter Two, it doesn’t have any dialogue.  The only things that will be in quotes will be things that are written down.  Don’t worry, Henry won’t write down what he wants to say, he’s too stupid to think of that.  Jan shifted her weight to one foot in annoyance.  He’s too HONEST to do that, she corrected herself.  Well, I’ll see you in Chapter Three; tell Henry I said, ‘Hi!’

Chapter Two

Henry’s house was a large Tudor styled two-story home in an arrogant, safe, residential area.  It is necessary for the author to describe this house at length, because most of the story will take place here.  However, the bulk of description will not be attempted all at once.  Bulk descriptions tend to bore the reader.  In the author’s policy book—at least THIS author’s policy book—descriptions should not cover more than one-half of a page, nor should they be stage-like (Ch.2, v. 23-26).  The author is especially not fond of rote descriptions; his preference is waiting for an inspired vision of the setting.  This could take several days, perhaps weeks.

The brown, rather dull, linoleum glared in the late afternoon sunlight.  The light reflected off the floor up onto the door of a relatively new microwave.  Some of the remaining light was again reflected onto the ceiling, giving the unlit kitchen light there an eerie glow.

Henry entered through the side door, which faces the driveway.  He slammed the door frustratedly.  Walking through the kitchen, he discovered an envelope on the counter.  Opening it, he saw that two words were written on the paper inside. He took it out.  It said, SPEAK NOT.  He dropped the paper in the trashcan, but replaced the empty envelope on the counter.

Wandering silently through the house, Henry reflected on the day’s events.  Preparing for the book was very much like making a movie.  The characters are given Plotlines, not Playbooks.

(Plotlines are no more than a basic list of instructions for each chapter.  For example, if the plotlines had been prepared for Chapter One, Jan’s instructions would have been,

1. Open the Chapter.  This means that she is to be in

the scene for the opening sentence.

2. Greet Henry.

3. Look pretty while Henry talks to the reader.

4. If necessary, help Henry with his speech.

5. Bid Henry goodbye until Chapter Three.

6. Give details that lead on to Chapter Two.

Henry’s Plotlines for Chapter One would have been much longer, as there was so much the author intended for him to say to the reader.  For this book, however, the plotlines were not ready until late in the actual writing of Chapter Three.  Basically, Exact scripts are not needed for the writing of books, because these people are not playing characters, these people are the characters.  Again, rehearsals are not needed either.  What’s to rehearse?  There aren’t any lines to go over.)

Henry remembered showing up on the set to find that no plotlines had been written yet.  At the last minute, the author gave him brief instructions to use second person, tell the reader about the book, be wordy, be himself—Basically, he was told to improvise.  Then he was shoved onto the sidewalk in front of Jan’s Umbrella Shop.

He raged in his silence.

The doorbell rang with an immediacy that made Henry jump.  Henry ambled into the foyer cautiously, wondering how two people could be in this chapter if they couldn’t talk.  He opened the door slowly, considering that the only way this meeting could be pulled off was if the person outside was a mute.

Fyodor M. Dostoevsky stood outside, waiting expectantly.  As soon as the door was opened, he entered.  He exchanged silent greetings with Henry, who stood there dumbfounded.  Dostoevsky was of medium height, the sunlight shone on his bald pate, he wore a long straggly beard, but strangely enough in the summertime, wore a long black overcoat.  Without being invited in, Dostoevsky quickly walked into the living area.  Before following him, Henry looked out into the front yard, thinking that perhaps another strange guest was due.  Finally, Henry joined his visitor, who he found standing in front of the bookcase scanning it with those intense brown eyes of his.  Sensing what Dostoevsky was searching for, Henry joined him in the search.  After several minutes of scanning the titles, Henry finally saw it on the far right of the lower bookshelf.  There, beside a copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, was Great Short Works of Fyodor Dostoevsky.  Contained in it was The Gambler, The Double, Notes from the Underground, etc.  Pleased to have discovered that Henry was a man of taste, Dostoevsky smiled.

He stepped over to the newspaper. Picking it up, he read the date that was printed across the top of it.  Elated that his works had survived—even remained popular—for over a century, he tossed the newspaper up in the air.

After watching the newspaper cloud the room with mystical glee (the author doesn’t care what the reader thinks had a mystical glee to it, but technically, this sentence says that the subject of the sentence, that is, Henry, watched with mystical glee.), Henry led his strange muted guest into the kitchen by pointing into it, then walking in that direction.

Dostoevsky followed in unbidden fascination.  He stopped in the entrance to the kitchen, looking with confusion at the refrigerator.  Henry was reaching up to open the freezer when he saw that his guest was staring in awe at the unrecognizable things before him.  Too bad Henry can’t say anything, or else he could explain it all to Dostoevsky.  Oh, well.  He can tell him all about it in chapter three.

Dostoevsky opened his mouth to speak, to ask about these strange things before him.  But before he could utter a word, a painful, all too familiar sensation shot down his back.  Within seconds, he had fallen to the floor, shaking wildly.

Henry stood still by the icebox, staring aghast at what was happening in his kitchen.  In a flash, he realized what was going on.  Dostoevsky was having a seizure!  He suffers from Epilepsy.  Henry’s mind searched for the right thing to do.  It seemed like minutes, but it was actually seconds, before it occurred to Henry to prevent Dostoevsky from biting his tongue off.  Grabbing a wooden spoon, He dove on Dostoevsky, who resembled a fish flapping spasmodically on a pier.  After several failed attempts the spoon finally entered Dostoevsky’s mouth. It would have been easier if his head had remained still, but please remember, Dostoevsky is having a seizure.

Dostoevsky continued to flail his arms, kick his legs for several minutes.  His foot found the trashcan, knocking it over.  Finally, he became still.  Perspiration quickly began to roll off his forehead.

Henry allowed the wooden spoon to drop to the floor.  He rolled over, sitting next to Dostoevsky.  Dostoevsky opened his mouth to speak again, but Henry hushed him.  Grabbing the card that said SPEAK NOT off the floor, he showed it to Dostoevsky.  As Dostoevsky read it, Henry noticed that it said, IN CHAPTER TWO on the back.

Henry stood up, then offered Dostoevsky his hand.  Dostoevsky graciously took it, using Henry’s upright figure as a counter weight to stand up.  Henry wandered into the living room, looking around as though the entire house had been blown apart.  The entire house actually was in shambles, but only for a moment.  Lamps had been knocked over; the bookcase had toppled itself on a chair, shattering itself into wooden splinters; the television had exploded; folding beds that normally hid in the guise of couches had unexpectedly opened onto tables, clearing them of ashtrays, magazines, flowers—everything that was on them had been dumped on the floor; the aquarium had burst open, spilling fifteen gallons of water onto the carpet, along with the fish that previously lived inside it the few pictures that had managed to stay on the walls hung diagonally; huge holes filled various sections of every wall.  Dostoevsky’s seizure had carried with it an awesome destructive force, but it was only imaginary, since everything returned to its former place, making Henry’s house a copasetic domicile like it was before.

Henry looked in confusion at Dostoevsky.  Dostoevsky looked in confusion at Henry.  The author wrote some notes on an otherwise empty piece of paper.

Almost despondently, Dostoevsky wandered into the bedroom to lie down for a nap.  Henry reclined on the couch to watch television.  In less than an hour, Henry was asleep.

Chapter Three

Several hours later, as Henry still lay on the couch asleep, the phone rang.

Dostoevsky jumped up in a panic, looking around fearfully.  He ran into the living room, finding Henry still asleep.  He jogged Henry’s arm until he stirred.

Henry, suddenly realizing the phone that was ringing was not in his dream, sprang up from the couch to lunge at the phone.  Picking it up, he said, Hello?

The voice on the other end was bright, cheerful.  Hi, Henry.  How was Chapter Two?

Dreadful.  Fyodor Dostoevsky showed up.

Who?

Fyodor M. Dostoevsky.  You know, the guy who wrote The Brothers Karamazov.  I can’t tell you the name of his most famous book, because it contains ‘the word.’

Does he speak English?

I don’t think so.  Just a minute, lemmesee.  Henry turned away from the phone to face Dostoevsky.  For a moment, he studied the famous Russian journalist standing before him.

A perplexed look had washed over Dostoevsky’s face from the moment Henry had picked up the phone.  His normally straight, wiry hair had become tossled in the back.  This is evidence that he had recently been sleeping.  Henry looked in the author’s direction with disdain.  Of course, the reader doesn’t need to be told that; they saw him go to bed.  Turning his attention to Dostoevsky, he asked, Do you speak English?"

Dostoevsky looked at Henry.  Knowing that he was being spoken to, he shrugged.

Henry put the phone to his ear again.  No, I don’t think he does.

I’ll be right over.

The phone went dead.

Henry hung up the phone in despair.  Being with Dostoevsky would be easier if Dostoevsky spoke English—or if Henry spoke Russian.  He called to the author.

The author entered the room through a wall that was not there.  What do you want? he questioned Henry in annoyance, as though he felt Henry should be able to handle the situation alone.

Look, Dostoevsky is a Russian author; he speaks Russian.  You’re an American author; you speak English.  I speak English.  Hopefully, most of your readers speak English.  But by virtue of his motherland, he speaks Russian.  Can you do anything about that?

The author looked quizzically at Henry.  For a moment, he thought about it, as though waiting for Henry to understand that nothing was going to be done.  Finally, he said, Okay, Dostoevsky speaks English.  With that, he disappeared through the wall that wasn’t there.

Henry watched as the author walked back to the edge of the page.  Turning his attention to Dostoevsky, He spoke for the first time words that Dostoevsky could understand.  Would you like something to eat?

No, I’m not hungry just yet.  Sorry about that—in the kitchen.  Dostoevsky paused, gesturing towards the kitchen, not quite wanting to talk about his seizure, but feeling it necessary to apologize for it.

Oh, don’t worry about it.  I’m glad I recognized it soon enough to prevent you from biting your tongue off.  Henry paused, recognizing the uncomfortable atmosphere between them, like slime in the air.  He did not, however, recognize that Dostoevsky did not want to talk about it.  How often do you have these seizures?

About once a month.  Dostoevsky began to look around the room, hoping for something to change the subject.

Henry unabashedly continued in his interrogation.  How long have you had Epilepsy?

Since 1857.

My, that’s a long time!  When did you come from?  I can’t suppose that you’ve been reincarnated, I have to assume you’ve been plucked out of Russia sometime during your life.

Dostoevsky looked at Henry, wondering what could have given him an inkling that such a thing was possible.  January 22, 1868.  I was in Geneva at the time.

The author’s voice called out from beyond the page.  Enough with this small talk!  Do something interesting.

Dostoevsky turned his fiery eyes towards the author.  In contempt, he complained, What would you like me to do, have another seizure?

No, that won’t be necessary . . .Never mind, Jan’s about to show up.

Henry turned away, trying to find something interesting to do.  Dostoevsky merely stood in the center of the room being portly.  His heavy black overcoat still drooped off his shoulders.  When Henry’s eyes found the tail of Dostoevsky’s coat dangling near the floor, he offered to hang it up for him.  Dostoevsky agreed, removing the coat with a little difficulty.

Meanwhile, at the umbrella shop, Jan was busy with a customer.  The customer had walked in the moment Jan had picked up the phone to call Henry.  After some small talk about the surprise of finding Fyodor Dostoevsky standing outside of Henry’s front door, they began to discuss the business at hand, which involved the purchase of an umbrella.  Jan tried to rush the customer by showing her the rather cheap but decent-quality folding umbrellas.  The customer was not quite convinced, couldn’t decide.

The author’s voice called out from beyond the page.  Hurry up!  She’s supposed to be at Henry’s house by now.

The customer spun around to hush this pushy person, but, upon seeing the author, began posing with the intent of looking glamorous.  Oh, am I going to be in a book?

The author took no notice of her better qualities, thinking it better to shoo her away like a fly.  Get out of my book!

With a Humph!! she stomped indignantly out of the store.  The author did not even bother to get her name as she left.

Jan quietly followed her, locking the door behind her.  After finishing with the door, she jogged to the back of the store, disappearing through a door behind the fitting rooms.  The click of electrical switches emerged from where Jan had gone as the lights blinked off one by one.

Outside, the backdoor to the shop opened as Jan emerged from the store.  You used that sentence in chapter one—except that it was the front door, a man emerged, he came from the sidewalk—Come on, be original, Jan iterated.

(Just for that, her car will stall before she gets to Henry’s house.)

Hey, who put that there?  Take that out!

In accordance with the author’s wishes, please disregard the most recent sentence in parentheses.

As Jan approached her car, it exploded, knocking her against the wall.

There, that’ll teach you!  Never tamper with my book.  The author seemed quite pleased with himself, though he spoke with undisguised agitation.  "I’m writing this book.  Don’t ever let anyone try to confuse you about that.

"Yes, that’s right.  If I’m talking to the reader, I can say ‘you’, too.

In fact, I put that nasty little sentence in parentheses there to make sure you’re awake.  Now look, let’s get something straight.  I call the shots here.  I’ve had it up to here with people questioning my authority! Don’t set this down in disgust!  Hear me out!  You’re going to read this book, you’re going to enjoy it!!  The author sat down after finishing his tirade.

The author stood up again, speaking calmly.  "Oh, by the way.  The reason a dialogue with more than one paragraph is set with new quotes at the beginning of each paragraph, but not at the end of each paragraph until the speaker is done talking is so that whoever reads it can tell it’s the same person talking.

Okay, resume story.  The author sat down again.

Jan lay unconscious on the pavement.  Her car burned furiously.

Oh, jeez!  This chapter’s going nowhere.  Let’s call it a day.  The author stood up again, setting a stack of papers in his chair.  That’s a wrap!

Jan stood up gracefully, brushing the soot off of her blouse.

The author walked over, offering a hand to help her up.  He spoke to her in concerned tones, Go on to Chapter Four.

Chapter Four

In reality, Henry’s house is on the other side of the fence behind Jan’s umbrella shop.  So, going on to Chapter Four is simply a matter of jumping over a fence, since Chapter Four takes place at Henry’s house.  For the sake of proper transition, the sun has gone down.  It is now preparing to rise.

Jan slept in the spare bedroom, which faced the garage from across the backyard.  Dostoevsky was curled up in the master bedroom.  Henry had tossed himself on the couch without even a blanket.  The house was so quiet that all the clocks in it could be heard ticking from the kitchen.  This would be true, of course, if anything could be heard over the elephantine snoring that Henry emitted.

Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov walked in quietly, despondently.  He dropped a bloodstained axe on the kitchen counter with profound disgust.  Walking into the living room, he looked at Henry for ten seconds.  After surveying the room in confusion, he crumbled to the floor in a steaming pile of outdoor stench.

The author was sitting in his chair, looking at the ground morosely while a vague sense of depression radiated from him.  The sun rose slowly, painfully.  Soon, the master bedroom was bathed in glaring light.

Dostoevsky stirred scornfully, mumbling the words, Somehow, the sun comes up too early.

Upon hearing that, Raskolnikov jumped to his feet, looking with nervous eyes through the doorway into the master bedroom.  He trodded silently through the living room, trying not to wake Henry.

As soon as Dostoevsky’s eyes met Raskolnikov’s, they closed.

Raskolnikov spoke warily. I’ve read your Diary of a Writer for 1876; if I were her, I’d have shot you in your mock-sleep.

Dostoevsky roused himself to full alertness while sitting up.  How dare you come in here, talking to me like that, you Godless scum!!

What’s wrong with you?  Aren’t you pleased to see your most beloved creation standing before you?  Raskolnikov taunted his creator mercilessly.

Beloved? Dostoevsky retorted.  I hate you, just as I would have had you walked in when I was creating you.  You’re an axe-murderer.  Dostoevsky leaned forward, pressing his hands into the corner of the mattress.  Did you really think that you could atone for a sin like murder with good deeds, or contributions to humanity?  After a pause, Dostoevsky continued.  Those kinds of things are the responsibility of all human beings.  Certainly, not all men are capable of fulfilling these responsibilities, but it is our duty to try!

Raskolnikov took this bait greedily, swallowing it hungrily.  That was not up to me.

At just that moment, Jan stumbled groggily past the doorway.  With a start, she appeared in the doorway again.  Good morning, Fyodor.  Who is this?

Dostoevsky stood, scratching his ribs rudely.  This is Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, the main character from one of my books.

Raskolnikov reached out his hand; Jan took it warmly, shaking it effusively.  She greeted him with a formal acknowledgement.  Nice to meet you, Mr. Raskolnikov.

Dostoevsky thoughtfully added, He’s an axe-murderer.

Jan’s grip on Raskolnikov’s hand loosened.  Raskolnikov allowed his hand to fall to his side.  Nice to meet you, too, Jan.  Call me Roddy, please.

The author’s eyes slowly traced a line up from the floor to the master bedroom.  He lent an ear to the conversation going on, taking slight interest in it.  Dostoevsky pushed his way through the doorway in contempt.  Jan became nervous, retreating into the living room with Dostoevsky, not letting her eyes off of Raskolnikov.

Henry tossed so violently that he fell off the couch.  Being awakened so suddenly displeased him.  He looked at the author, speaking through a gravelly throat.  Thanks, I needed that.

Raskolnikov padded slowly into the living room when Jan was almost in the kitchen.  Henry looked at Raskolnikov, immediately recognizing him.  What are you doing here?

I don’t know, Raskolnikov responded.  Hey, author.  What am I doing here?

The author explained angrily, in a tired voice.  You’re a character in this book.  Don’t ask stupid questions.

Henry got up from the floor.  He hurried into the kitchen, past Jan.  After a short delay, his voice shrieked into everybody’s head with, GET THIS AXE OUT OF MY HOUSE!!!!!

The author continued to sit dejectedly in his chair.  Jan stepped up to him.  What’s wrong, she asked as she squatted in front of him, trying to look into his downcast eyes.  Her gown hung loosely on her shoulders, revealing the youthful curve of her body in silhouette.

The author did not answer for quite some time.  When he finally did, he spoke softly, as though he didn’t really feel the need to speak.  I don’t have the plotlines ready like I promised.  I’ve gone through the last three chapters, there’s nothing going on.  His voice cracked a bit.  This book is going nowhere.  It’s my fault.  It’s all my fault.

Dostoevsky turned to look at the author.  Henry appeared from the kitchen.  Raskolnikov stared relentlessly at the blank screen of the television.  Jan queried further, What’s supposed to be going on?

The author looked up, speaking derisively.  I can’t tell you.  If I tell you what’s going to happen, the book will end too soon.

Dostoevsky took a step forward.  He’s right.  If we know what we’re supposed to do, we’ll do it too soon, or never do it.  I vote that if he wants us to not know, he doesn’t tell us.

Henry approached the author from across the room.  Look, I’m sorry about that stuff I said in Chapter One; I’m sorry for the stuff I would have said in Chapter Two.  If you can’t write plotlines for us, we don’t insist on having them.

The author was touched.  A tear began to roll down his cheek.  Aside from the fact that Henry’s current behavior is completely out of character for him, the author found it to be entirely appropriate.  I’ve failed.  I failed you all.  The only thing that I’ve succeeded in doing has been keeping the word out of the story.

Jan stood authoritatively.  "I agree with Henry.  In fact, I think that the