It wasn't working. Worlds are best when they feel heard, and this--wasn't. It wasn't the distractions around her--the dishwasher, her game in another monitor, a novel open on her phone, although those obviously weren't helping. It was just that every word felt strained. Every sentence came out twisted and wrong on the screen, and she was no closer to a draft than if she hadn't even bothered. Shae stared at the blinking cursor; her lips creased. The current song ended, and Shae glanced up to read the next before it started. The laptop almost toppled from her lap, but Shae caught it. Something else had caught her, though.
Gail Cooper stood in front of the TV. The living room was too small for them both; she was too close. Shae shook her head to dislodge the sandy whispers filling her ears; her eyes did not leave the spectre in front of her. They could have been siblings: plump cheeks, tall, wide hips that led into thick legs. But Gail's eyes were black pits, were ink, and her hair was auburn, not blonde, and it grew in the curls and knots Shae mentioned in one of her stories. Gail had no sclera and no pupils, but her eyes still seemed to burn into Shae's.
"I'm hungry," Gail said. "They're hungry." Shae swallowed; she regretted it the moment the smell of rotted inkberries coated her throat.
"I know," Shae said. She began to rise, and then hurriedly, carefully moved the laptop onto the couch beside her. She strained back in her seat away from Gail, who seemed to be getting more spindly with every moment. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm trying, but it's just not working. It's not going. I don't have many people reading anyway. Them that are--they already know. Sorry." Gail did not move, but she was closer, suddenly, looming over Shae.
"I don't care," Gail said without sound. "I'm hungry. Write. Write about us. Anything." Something chilled the nape of Shae's neck; she didn't look around at whatever she wouldn't be able to see.
"This one is about Amanda getting hurt," Shae said. "Sunstroke, and the cicadas. This is the other half. Are you sure you want that written? That you want that real?" Gail tilted her head just a fraction. A bead of black formed at her temple; Shae watched it slide like a water droplet down that ashy skin.
"You say that like I care. But I'd be there with her now, if she knew. I've fed on her fear before." Gail smiled, suddenly. Her cheeks crinkled under her black eyes. Her face, and her body, moved just like Shae's. "But you know that. You wrote that scene real, didn't you?" Another lack-of-movement, and Gail's knee brushed Shae's leg. The writer couldn't stop herself from craning her neck up.
"I'm hungry, and we feed on those who know about us. You wrote that, too. So if you know, and you're not producing..." Gail shrugged with a sound like eggshells breaking. "There are other writers. This isn't the most original idea you've had. Probably because it's the realest."
"Some deal," Shae said.
"Best one of your life." Gail Cooper smiled that mimicked smile again. Shae's eyes lost focus; they sharpened on the TV screen. Gail and that cold presence were both gone. The taste of rotten inkberries was stronger in their place. Shae gagged. She swallowed, clenched her teeth, and forced her fingers to make the cursor dance. The taste lessened with each word.
Shae knew that detail was all hers, the inkberries. She hated it.
Gail Cooper stood in front of the TV. The living room was too small for them both; she was too close. Shae shook her head to dislodge the sandy whispers filling her ears; her eyes did not leave the spectre in front of her. They could have been siblings: plump cheeks, tall, wide hips that led into thick legs. But Gail's eyes were black pits, were ink, and her hair was auburn, not blonde, and it grew in the curls and knots Shae mentioned in one of her stories. Gail had no sclera and no pupils, but her eyes still seemed to burn into Shae's.
"I'm hungry," Gail said. "They're hungry." Shae swallowed; she regretted it the moment the smell of rotted inkberries coated her throat.
"I know," Shae said. She began to rise, and then hurriedly, carefully moved the laptop onto the couch beside her. She strained back in her seat away from Gail, who seemed to be getting more spindly with every moment. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm trying, but it's just not working. It's not going. I don't have many people reading anyway. Them that are--they already know. Sorry." Gail did not move, but she was closer, suddenly, looming over Shae.
"I don't care," Gail said without sound. "I'm hungry. Write. Write about us. Anything." Something chilled the nape of Shae's neck; she didn't look around at whatever she wouldn't be able to see.
"This one is about Amanda getting hurt," Shae said. "Sunstroke, and the cicadas. This is the other half. Are you sure you want that written? That you want that real?" Gail tilted her head just a fraction. A bead of black formed at her temple; Shae watched it slide like a water droplet down that ashy skin.
"You say that like I care. But I'd be there with her now, if she knew. I've fed on her fear before." Gail smiled, suddenly. Her cheeks crinkled under her black eyes. Her face, and her body, moved just like Shae's. "But you know that. You wrote that scene real, didn't you?" Another lack-of-movement, and Gail's knee brushed Shae's leg. The writer couldn't stop herself from craning her neck up.
"I'm hungry, and we feed on those who know about us. You wrote that, too. So if you know, and you're not producing..." Gail shrugged with a sound like eggshells breaking. "There are other writers. This isn't the most original idea you've had. Probably because it's the realest."
"Some deal," Shae said.
"Best one of your life." Gail Cooper smiled that mimicked smile again. Shae's eyes lost focus; they sharpened on the TV screen. Gail and that cold presence were both gone. The taste of rotten inkberries was stronger in their place. Shae gagged. She swallowed, clenched her teeth, and forced her fingers to make the cursor dance. The taste lessened with each word.
Shae knew that detail was all hers, the inkberries. She hated it.
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