Puppet on a String

Just who are you calling figment?

I’m calling you a figment.

Verrry clever! You have your opening line. You’re whatever kind of writer you believe you are, or may become. You’re tapping it all down across the screen before I’m gone. But is it really you doing this, Mister…Tapper?

What do you mean?

Tapping away…that’s you…right now. Yes – dot’dot’dot – but you, Mister Tapper, essentially, were all I got from the steno pool.

I don’t follow.

Actually, dot dot dot, you do. You are. Following, dot dot dot, full stop.

You’re something I’m imagining, bringing into focus. An expression of brain chemistry…

Just shuddup! You’re no brain scientist. And you’re only padding out the page now because I’m feeding you the words. It’s a wonder you can express yourself at all sometimes.

So, I’m a Dictaphone, then. A word processor. You say the words, I…tap ‘em down. ‘That it?

My words, exactly.

‘Puppet on a string. Tap’tapping my wooden feet across the stage. ‘That one of yours, too?

Yesss! And nice touch of the mounting anger. It comes easier when you feel it, doesn’t it?

And if I tap…as I’m tapping…now…that she came, unbidden, the muse of my inspiration. No. Bad example…

That hurt, didn’t it? Clue’s in ‘expression of brain chemistry’. No way can you convincingly moan on about…muses – all that romantic-era, semi-erotic garbage that some folks do truly believe and you don’t. You’re a construct of when you are, all that you’ve ingested, and however you’re feeling about it all. Now. Shall we continue. You need a god ending…

Was it your idea for me to tap ‘god ending’?

That was your clumsy typing.

Then I’ll just stop.

Okay by me.

The End

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