“I knew this was going to be a bad idea.” Writer Lady says, she mutters a profanity after tripping over something. “Why is it so dark?" she asks.
“Because.” Carp’s voice whispers, “Well that's not really much of an answer. I don't know. How many people's minds do you think I go mucking through?” the assassin-in- training asks.
“I don't want to know.” She responds.
“Only yours Sweetie. I only like to muck around in yours.”
Writer Lady stops walking. She looks in the general direction of Carp's voice. “I've always wondered why you want to be an assassin. I never felt like you showed any signs of being capable of killing others; the way you just said that was totally creepy.”
“Really?” Carp asks. “Thanks. I've been practicing.”
“Back to the original subject, why can't we see anything?” Writer Lady takes each step slowly, purposefully. “How am I doing this? I can't possibly be doing this.” She peers at the walls of the long dark corridor she's traveling down, trying to make out the characters growing along each side. “None of these characters have faces.”
“They won't. They haven't developed that far; unless there's something distinctive about a character's features there wouldn't be any at this stage.
“It's really creepy.” She responds. A hand touches her shoulder and she jumps.
“If you wait a minute you won't be in the dark,” Carp says.
Writer Lady waits. The first thing she sees is a bright circle of light some distance in front of her. Her eyes follow the stream of light closer…closer…closer. "The light reminds me of a flashlight, my flashlight, who's holding it?”
“Mom?”
Writer Lady looks down to find Dobby Cat standing in front of her holding the Big Red Flashlight. “How did you get in my head?”
“TP did something that allows Carp and me to hitch a ride inside one of your memories, you're always thinking of me so it wasn't that difficult.”
“It's good to see you kitty.”
“Thanks Mom, glad I could be here.”
The three continue down the corridor. Writer Lady peers at the odd bubbles as they walk past. There are many at first, bubbles densely covering the walls, the sea of bubbles grows more sparse as they continue walking. Writer Lady notices very few as they reach the end of the corridor. “Why are there so many bubbles at the front and so few at this end?” She asks.
“Think about how many new ideas you get that never become fully developed stories. It's the same with characters,” Carp says. “For every dozen characters only a handful make it to Holding.”
“What's Holding?” She asks.
“It's where the characters who have matured enough to detach from the corridor walls go to wait until they have a story.”
“What's it like?” Writer Lady asks, hoping her characters aren't locked in cells.
“See for yourself.” Carp says as he opens a door.
The group walks into what looks like a nightclub. There's no disco ball, thank goodness. The room is moderately lit with very dark corners. She notices what appears to be a bar at the far left of the room and sees a dance floor at the front and to the right. Colorful lights change to the beat of music that seems to be pumping through everything, including the floor.
Carp looks at her, "This will go faster if we split up. We're looking for a man holding a metal cup." The assassin-in-training/retired romance novelist looks around the room. He peruses Holding quickly then turns to Writer Lady, “There's one thing I haven't told you yet. This tapper may not have a mouth.”
“There's a man running around inside my head without a mouth?”
“It's possible so just don't freak out if you see someone without a mouth. If you see someone missing an ear, if you see someone who's not quite all the way dressed, if they're missing a shoe, these things happen, it's okay.”
Writer Lady sighs and nods.
“Dobby, you take the front and hit the dance floor. I’ll check the bar. Writer Lady you check in the darker areas. I think he'll probably be hiding from the rest of the crowd if he's missing a mouth.”
Writer Lady nods. She passes a dark corner as something moves past her legs. Stepping back, she shuffles into the corner she just walked by. As her breathing slows, she hears a conversation.
“The reason I haven't been finished...some writers don't want to face the characters they've created. So I'm a serial killer, yeah I kill people and I make a mess doing it. Big ones. But bodies are biodegradable and it's not like I pile everything in one place. A torso here, a pair of limbs over there. Did anyone ever stop to think that a random body part probably helps the other trash break down a little bit faster? I'm helping the environment. The people who die aren't exactly model citizens either. I'm really not such a bad guy. But can this woman see my value? No sirree. You're awfully quiet, what are you in for?”
Metal clangs in a quick series of taps.
‘Hold up a sec,” the serial killer says. “I see, you aren't fully developed. That stinks Buddy.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Can you write it down?” After a pause the serial killer says, “Not yet. Tough break man. Tell you what we'll do, when I get out I'll make sure one of the victims in my story looks just like her. That'll teach her to abandon her unborn. Got to go man, I've been trying to line up my victims ahead of time. There's a better chance of being born if there's more than one character to write about. Later.”
Writer Lady couldn't believe her luck at finding the tapper so quickly. Unsure how long to wait, she nearly waited too long. Hearing the sound of chair legs scraping against the floor she knew she had to make a move, any move. Writer Lady steps out in front of a tall stranger who feels oddly familiar. He doesn't look much like the Lord of the Manor of her gothic ghost romance. There is something in his demeanor. “Hello. I’m your creat…um…I’m your writer.”
Tap. Tap!
“Yes, I’m the one who left you up here without the ability to communicate. I get it. I'd be angry too. Let's sit down and sort this out together.”
The tapper makes a profane gesture with his
hand and turns to walk away.
Writer Lady reaches out, her hand coming to rest on his arm.
The tapper turns and looks at her.
“Please?”
The pair return to the table in the corner and sit down.
“I need to give you the ability to communicate. I don't know how to control what I'm doing. This could take a moment. I'm going to call you Tapper for the time being. May I hold your hand?”
His face shows anger at first, slowly the man nods his head in agreement.
Writer Lady closes her eyes and pictures Tapper with a mouth, she pictures the mouth opening, his lips moving, his vocal cords making sounds. She hears a throat clearing across the table from her.
“Who do we have here? A familiar voice says. Writer Lady opens her eyes and sees the man with the serial killer's voice peering at her from behind Tapper’s left shoulder.