Whispers

Resolutions! I finally made some—today. In order to make a living at writing, I have to sell 1600 words a day, five days a week, at five cents a word. So:

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Originally published at Liana Mir. You can comment here or there.

Miraia settles in across from me with characteristic poise and grace. Though her family always says she’s like her grandfather, for the first time, I see her grandmother in her instead.

So, she says. You wish to speak directly to a member of Vardin.

Well, I was thinking more of hearing a story, I admit. You know, a publishable one.

One eyebrow wings upward. Miraia may be colored like an Asian, gold skin and shiny black hair—though not quite straight, but her features aren’t so much. She’s very French, very like her father’s family. She’s also a little too good at making me squirm.

I gave you a story.

Well, I have to further admit, I was hoping for somebody in Summerlight to show up to this. Or something really, really short. Or even somebody in one of my requested ficlets…

I trail off, seeing by her slightly amused look—she has the wickedest grin—that ending my train of thought would be in my favor.

But I like my story. Her wicked grin just gets wider. She stretches her arms, flexing one hand against the other, and I recognize that thing she does before something she’s anticipating. I think you should write about me. And Justice. He’s fun.

I shake my head at her sparkling eyes. You’re hopeless. You do know that I have a novel to write, right? And ficlets? And everything else?

Pshaw. She waves me off. You work too hard. You need to learn how to have fun.

I’m not entirely sure I trust her idea of fun. I hesitate, but really, it bears mentioning. You’re not in Summerlight.

But Miraia just shrugs. Not my fault you set the book too early. And I am there. I’m just—

Little. I size the space between my fingers to emphasize.

—a petite. And now, I’m grown. She practically sparkles at me, eyes bright, fabulous smile. I forgot how much of a ham she is. (Her family says she’s like her mother too.)

How about you tell me about something from the book then?

She gives me that look generally reserved for the idiotic she once thought was so intelligent. How about you write my story? Write about butterflies.

Are you a butterfly? I ask. To be honest, I’m not sure if I should hope for an answer. She never gave Justice that answer.

Miraia looks thoughtful, as if weighing the question. I am her creator. Maybe she’ll be really nice and tell me. I probably look ridiculously hopeful.

She shakes her head. I have a butterfly. But me, I am a dragon, with butterfly wings.

Originally published at Liana Mir. You can comment here or there.