synopsis: Alan is trying to write a new story. A conversation with a character of his may just give him the inspiration he needs... and more.
The Conversation
(by S.B.)
Alan sat at his desk and turned the laptop on. It was time to start the old song and dance routine once more.
As much as he loved writing, bleeding creativity through every pore, he knew he couldn’t do it for long periods of time without getting fatigued. His brain operated on a special frequency, particularly in the mornings and, after copious ammounts of trial and error, he had finally discovered the best way to make use of it. For some people, numbers are magical, imbued with special properties. His own slice of the fantastic was the number 500.
500 words. That’s how much he was able to write at one given time before needing to stop. It didn’t seem much—in fact, it was almost insignificant—but the bottom line was: it worked. All that was required was for him to shut down all distractions and type. When the goal was reached, he would stop, take a five/ten minute break and then come back for another round.
At first, he had tried the other way around. Upon getting up, he would tell himself: “today, you’re going to sit down and write two thousand words in a row” or " today, you’ll spend three hours straight writing”. Wishful thinking was pretty and all but it was just that for boredom quickly settled in. A free spirit, Alan hated long constraints. Any prison he would walk freely into had to be short-lived.
500 words was as good a compromise as any other. Usually, fifteen minutes was enough to type them and, by the end of the writing period, he felt he had actually accomplished something even if he was just improvising on the go. The more the words escaped the seclusion of his thoughts to find a new life in the open document, the more inspired he felt to add yet another 500 to the lot and, by the end of the morning, he had more material than he hoped for, as well as more ideas waiting to come out. It was a win-win situation, so why stop?
Most of the times, the hardest part was getting started. What would he write about that day? What experiences would he evoke and to what end? Alan’s plans never turned out the way he envisioned them because new thoughts were always on the move. If an idea wasn’t working, it was best to jump to another, follow the flow somewhere else than sit, moping, looking to force concepts out that would rebel at him at any possible chance. Resistance is only fun in short bursts. He had resisted that notion for far too long.
That Friday morning was one of those days. He didn’t know what to write about but he kept pounding the keyboard anyway. Eventually, a semblance of order would emerge from the unfiltered chaos of his emotions. The meaning he couldn’t yet see would shine before his eyes and dreams would be born anew. That was his hope and he would never stop hoping for if he did, he might as well die.
He smiled as the familiar buzz rang in his ears. The first 500 words were done.
After having a glass of water and stretching his legs in the courtyard, he returned to his desk, restless fingers ready to go at it again. Max—his 2-year-old Labradoodle—had other ideas, hanging on to the sleeve of his denin black shirt as if it were his favorite toy. It was always play time for him.
“Not right now, boy,” Alan shooshed him. The energetic pet insisted, warm drool turning the dark fabric into a slobbering mess. Nothing would distract him from his ultimate goal, nothing at... oh, flying rubber bone!
The moment he scurried off, new horizons in mind, Alan closed the bedroom door and cracked his knuckles.
“Okay, where was I...?”
Excellent question, perhaps the best of them all. His first few words of the day had been a series of loose sentences, impressions of a woman he had never seen. She was tall, taller than him, had moist burgundy lips, and wore her long platinum-like hair in a perfect ponytail. Those were the only things he had been able to glimpse, yet they weren’t enough to build a story around... no, he needed more, she needed to tell him more.
Yes, she needed to do it, not him. Like many other writers, or writer wannabes, Alan often rationalized that his characters weren’t really his own, but rather extradimensional beings he was able to channel whenever the desire to write became tangible. It was a strange concept, he knew that, which is why he didn’t talk about it out loud, instead preferring the usual diplomatic excuses. When asked on how he was able to conjure so many fantastic scenarios one after the other, he would shrug it off by saying:
“I just have a powerful imagination, that’s all.”
It wasn’t a lie. His imagination was indeed powerful, a force to be reckoned with, but only when it was in active mode. There was another setting—the lazy one, for lack of a better word—and they would often clash, fighting for the control of his true persona. A few months ago, laziness won more than ninety percent of the battles, his thoughts interrupted, all dreams fading away. Nowadays, things were more even, no short of thanks to the wonderful discipline of...
500 words. He had done it again as the buzzer made sure to remind him. The shrieking sound grated on his ears but not as much as Max’s incessant whining now that he had discovered having been locked out of his favorite playground. Alan smiled from ear to ear and opened the cedar door, the furry beast laying the white and blue bone at his feet as if it were an offering to appease an angry God.
“I’m not throwing it again.”
Max wagged his fluffy tail and circled his owner, black liquid eyes begging for attention. “Are you sure? Because I can do this all day and you won’t be able to resist,” he appeared to say.
“Why are you such a rascal?” Alan asked.
“Because you never bothered to train me,” Max pretended to reply, wet snout now pushing the bone to meet his fuzzy slippers. “Go on, you know you want to.”
“You have ten minutes,” another voice echoed in the back of his mind. “Go play with your pet. Then, it’s time you and I have a talk.”
Alan glanced at the laptop, almost wishing the dark keys were moving on its own. It had been a while since he had written a ghost story. Perhaps that day?
“Not quite,” the ethereal voice continued. “Be patient.”
“Are you going to tell me your name?” he asked.
“That and so much more but not until the time is right. Off you go, now!”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he acquiesced, not in the least taken aback by the fact he was talking to a computer screen. Who was he channelling this time? Only ten minutes to find out. Max bit his left calf and demanded to play fetch.
It was only ten minutes yet they felt like one hundred or more. As he soaked in the Autumn sun, mechanically throwing the bone left and right, Alan’s heart rate accelerated, signalling the outset of an exciting phase. All his greatest creations had begun with a conversation. Anyone peeking through his window during those times would only see him muttering to himself, yet he knew better. It takes a writer to understand another writer. Everyone else thinks they’re all mad.
“And you aren’t?” the woman he knew nothing about asked as soon as he returned to his seat, fresh corn buttermilk biscuit in his right hand.
“I know I am, but I like it. What about you?”
“I’m not mad as a whole, just mad about certain things.”
“Such as...?”
“Easy there, cowboy. Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself? Politeness says you should start by asking my name.”
“You’re right, forgive me. What’s your name?”
“Guess.”
Alan’s nose twitched. “But you just said...”
“I know what I said and now I’m telling you to guess. It will be fun, trust me.”
“Okay... hmmm... Jessica?”
“Not even close.”
“Amanda?”
“Nope, sorry. Try again.”
“Chloe?”
“Yikes, no!” She yawped.
“What’s wrong with Chloe?”
“Nothing wrong with it. It’s just you’re way off the mark.”
“There are too many names out there. How am I supposed to guess if you don’t give me a hint?”
“Do writers need hints?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
“I see. Very well, I’ll give you one but I want something in return.”
“Like what?”
“I want you to promise me will continue talking even if the buzzer goes off again. No breaks this time, can you do that for me?”
“I suppo... but why?”
“I like to break barriers, expand limits. If that intrigues you even a little, you’ll accept my offer. If not, I’m leaving. You have ten seconds to decide. Ten, nine, eight...”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“I accept your proposal. No breaks. Hint, please.”
“My name starts with a K.”
“K? Hmm, let’s see... Kari? Probably not. Kimberly? Katherine? It’s Katherine, isn’t it?”
“Bingo. Nice to meet you, Alan.”
“Nice to meet you, too.”
“It wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“No. I like that name a lot.”
“I know you do.”
“How do you know?”
“You just told me, silly. And I’m always paying attention. That’s another thing you now know about me.”
“Please tell me more.”
“It doesn’t work like that. I’ll do that but only if you do the same. It’s a fair trade, isn’t it not?”
“Yes,” Alan nodded. The cookie was gone and his hands now rested on the worn-out desk. He needed to buy a new one. And a new laptop. And a new bookshelf. And...
“Alan?”
“What is it?”
“Your thoughts are wandering instead of being focused on me. That won’t work.”
“I’m sorry, Katherine. What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with the basics. Alan what?”
Wake, he thought, reminiscing about the old videogame. It was a good name, but so was his real one.
“Watson,” he replied.
“Just like Dr. Watson?” Katherine smirked. “Is Sherlock Holmes around?”
“Only if your last name turns out to Adler,” he played along.
“It’s not but I’ve been called Adder once.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Why?”
“Your voice. It’s so smooth. You don’t sound like an adder at all to me.”
“Thank you for the compliment, kind sir.”
“You’re most welcome.”
“Your turn. Ask me whatever you want.”
“What do you do for a living, Katherine? Besides breaking barriers and such...”
“Breaking barriers is my specialty but the correct answer to that question is... I’m a hypnotist.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Is that so surprising?”
“A bit. I’ve never written a story about a hypnotist before.”
“There’s always a first time for everything as they say.”
“True but...”
“But what? What’s brewing in that little head of yours?”
“I don’t know. When I was picturing you earlier before, I thought of something else.”
“Oh? Now this I have to hear. What did you think I was?”
“Hmm...”
“Lay it all out, Alan. There’s only the two of us, here. All your secrets are safe with me. You thought I was...?”
“A dominatrix,” he blurted. “For some reason when you first came to mind, I thought of a dominatrix.”
“Interesting. Do you think about dominatrices a lot?”
“No.”
“You’re blushing. Are you lying to me, Alan?”
“No, Katherine.”
“I sure hope not because I hate being lied to. Let’s try this again. Do you think about dominatrices a lot?”
“No, not a lot.”
“But sometimes you do?”
“Yes, Katherine,” he conceded. “Sometimes, I do.”
“That’s good to know.”
“It is?”
“Yes. I bet it’s almost as good as saying it out loud. How many of your friends and family members know of these thoughts of yours?”
“I never told anyone about this.”
“And yet you just told me. It’s flattering, really, but why did you do that?”
“Because... because I trust you won’t tell a soul. I mean, how could you...? You’re in my head and all.”
“I’m pleased.”
“You are?”
“Of course. It’s good to be trusted. I’m glad you trust me, Alan. It’s the right thing to do.”
“Thank you, Katherine.”
“Alan, why do you think of dominatrices sometimes? What draws you to them? Do you know?”
“Not sure. The women in my stories tend to be in positions of power. Businesswomen, teachers, brain surgeons... I guess I like them that way. No damsels in distress for me.”
“Would you rather be the damsel instead? Pretty pink dress, a ribbon on your blonde hair, tight black corset restraining your every move?”
“No chance in hell!”
“That’s too bad. I bet you would look amazing, ballerina boots and all.”
“You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”
“What if I am? You’re the one that sees me as a dominatrix. Isn’t that what dominatrices do?” She provoked him.
“They do a lot of things, that’s for sure.”
“Curious how you see me. How do you prefer your dominatrices, Alan? Black leather? Latex dress? Whip? Flogger?”
“I don’t have a preference. It’s just a fantasy.”
“Come on, fantasy or not, everyone has a particular taste. Tell me yours, or rather show me.”
“How?”
“Are you so fascinated by this conversation I need to spell everything out? You’re a writer, Alan, and those fingers have been still for a while now so get on with the program and... W-R-I-T-E. Write, Alan. Describe me somewhere, will you?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Wonderful. Make me proud.”
Her silky voice slowly receded, a whisper becoming nothingness. Alan blinked, dilated pupils fixed on the throbbing light emanating from the 15.6-inch portable screen. The early fragments he had thought of were still there, scattered pieces of a puzzle yet to be unearthed. He picked up one of them, rotated the jagged object on the palm of his hand and typed:
The first thing he noticed about Katherine was how tall she was, even in flats. He was precisely six feet, slightly above the average of an American rapidly entering his thirties. She, on the other hand, was almost six foot six, half of her height being sinuous legs. She stood by the hotel entrance, a slightly younger man next to her, lipstick mark on his forehead, loving eyes locked on her light-colored...
“Alan?” She interrupted him.
“What is it?”
“That’s overkill.”
“You just told me to describe you.”
“Yes but you’re doing it wrong. Again, you’re not paying attention. Don’t you want to pay attention?”
“Of course, I do but...”
“I’m only six foot two, my hair is platinum blonde this week but it was coral blue the month before. I’m versatile, change the way I look whenever I see fit. I like pencil midi skirts, preferably in bright red or burgundy which happens to be my favorite color. You noticed that when you saw me first and made a passing remark about my lips. Yes, the man I kissed was lucky, but he is also my brother. I’m unattached, not looking for a companion at the moment, but always eager to play with fresh minds, nonetheless. Ring a bell?”
“I... Didn’t you just tell me to write?”
“And that’s exactly what you just did,” she cooed. “Thank you, Alan.”
“You’re... welcome?” He stuttered.
“You seem confused.”
“That’s because I am.”
“Why are you confused?”
“You told me to write and then you wrote for me. Why did you do that, Katherine?”
“Do what?”
“Take control of the situation.”
“Do you still need to ask? I know you liked that. You want me to be a dominatrix. Don’t act out like you’re offended for doing dominatrix things.”
“I’m getting even more confused now.”
“I like that. Once again, thank you for telling me this. You will always tell me everything I want to know when I want to know it, won’t you?”
“Hmm... yeah... I... hey, you’re doing it again, Katherine!”
“You fall for it every time... This is fun, Alan. And you weren’t kidding earlier when you said you like my name, I see.”
“Am I using it too much?”
“No, I’m just playing with you. Isn’t that another thing dominatrices do?”
“I... guess.”
“Tell me something about the last session you had.”
“What session?”
“Why, surely a man that thinks of dominatrices as much as you do has a dozen sessions or more under his belt or am I wrong?”
“You are, sorry.”
“Domination virgin?”
“Well...”
“How adorable, you’re blushing again.”
“It’s just this isn’t going as I expected. I wanted to know more about you and it seems...”
“Seems what?”
“It seems like you’re the one leading the conversation from the start, making me say things I didn’t want to say.”
“If you didn’t want to say them, you wouldn’t say them, but you’re right, I am leading the conversation. I’m a hypnotist, that’s what I do. I lead and my subjects follow.”
“I’m not your subject.”
“Did I say you were?” she poked. “Why so defensive all of a sudden?”
“I’m not being defensive, Katherine.”
“That’s the second sentence in a row you start with ‘I’m not’ almost as if you feel a need to justify yourself. That’s classic defensive behavior 101, Alan. Trust me, I know.”
“I’m not...”
“Third strike,” she noted. “which begs the question you’re not asking but I will. Why are you afraid of hypnosis, Alan?”
“When did I say that?”
“Just now when you said you weren’t my subject even though I never implied you were. You’re still defending yourself as we speak.”
“No, I’m not!”
“A little variation there yet the words are the same. And my question remains unanswered. Why are you afraid of hypnosis, Alan?”
“For the last time, Katherine, I’m not afraid of hypnosis. I said I’m not your subject because it’s true. I’m not. You’re not even real. I’m just pretending you are to get something going in my writing.”
“And if you were my subject? What then?”
“What then what?”
“What would happen if you were my subject, Alan?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve never been hypnotized in my life. How can I possibly know what would happen if I were your subject?”
“You’re a writer. Imagine it for me.”
“Huh?”
“Imagine you’re my subject. Imagine I’m hypnotizing you or that I already have. Imagine what happens at the precise moment or right after you fall into trance for me. Imagine everything you never knew your imagination was capable of.”
“I don’t want to do that.”
“Because you’re afraid?”
“No, because the last time you asked me to do something, you immediately changed the script the moment you felt like it. I don’t want it to happen again. And besides, since when does not wanting to do something means automatically being afraid of it?”
“If you weren’t afraid, you would be doing it. I’m not saying I’m going to hypnotize you, I just want you to imagine the possibility.”
“But why?”
“Why not? Tell me something... do you write every scenario that comes to mind?”
“Of course not.”
“My turn to ask. Why not?”
“Because not everything I can think of has the potential to become a story. Some ideas are just that, sketches of something that could be but will not come to pass.”
“And how do you decide that? Don’t you imagine the outcome first even if you never do anything with it?”
“Sometimes but not always. ”
“This is one of those times, Alan. You say you’ve never written a story with a hypnotist before so imagine this is one. We’re both characters in this scenario you’re cooking up. As we’re talking and we get to know one another, the thought of being hypnotized by me lights up inside your mind. At first, you’re reluctant, thinking the thought without acknowledging it. It’s not something you want to consider because the more you do so the less you find it strange and you’re not ready for that familiarity yet. We’ve only just met and hypnosis is a delicate thing because it has the power to alter the perception one has of oneself, the world, and everyone else inside it. Hypnosis can change the way you think and that’s something you don’t want to happen because you like your thoughts. They’re yours. You like what’s yours and that’s okay. Your current line of thinking has served you well all this time, no need to see things differently, right?
“Wrong! Wrong, I tell you, and you trust me to know I wouldn’t say something like that if I didn’t know what I’m talking about because I am the hypnotist, not you. Hypnotists have great imaginations too, you know? It’s true, we do. We have the imagination to spark other people’s imagination whether through words, gestures, a combination of both... we know how to hypnotize people quickly, we know how to take it slow, we know how to guide people into hypnosis even without using the word at all but the word ‘hypnosis’ is such a powerful tool on its own it’s almost a waste not to use it. Good things shouldn’t go to waste and that’s why I always say I’m a hypnotist even before people ask. I’m a hypnotist. I lead and my subjects follow.”
“I already said I’m not...”
“Yes. Yes, you have, but you’re already imagining what would it be like if you were. Part of the story you’re writing is already written because your imagination is working to make it real for me. If you were my subject, listening to the word ‘hypnosis’ so many times, you would probably be hypnotized right now. If you were my subject, chances are you would hang on to every syllable I utter as if they were a divine commandment, an order to be carried out. If you were my subject, I suspect you would be easily confused, played at whim, and you would enjoy being led around unwillingly, and you would find yourself eager to obey.”
“Why would I...?”
“Dominatrices, Alan. Powerful women at every turn in the things you muster. You like dominant women, you like to celebrate their superiority over you. You enjoy fantasizing about being theirs to command even when your words don’t explicitly admit it. Now imagine a dominant that’s also a hypnotist. Imagine her words are going right through you. Imagine that in the brief time it took you to know a fraction of who she is, she already filled a whole notebook with all your triggers, all your weaknesses. Imagine she knows how to use that imagination of yours to create an elaborate scenario where a character becomes real, where a character writes the writer into existence, where a character is in charge all the time. Imagine her name is Katherine and that Katherine is in control. Katherine is always in control. Katherine is always in control. When Katherine is in control, Alan lies asleep. Alan lies asleep. Alan lies asleep at the keyboard, thinking of 500 words even though he’s written over 4000 by now. Alan writes when he’s asleep, Alan writes when he’s awake. Alan writes all the time because it’s what Katherine wants. Alan writes because Katherine told him to. Alan writes because Katherine commanded him to. Alan obeys Katherine’s commands because Alan is hypnotized. Alan is always hypnotized whenever Katherine speaks. Katherine knows best and Alan obeys. Alan obeys because he’s Katherine’s subject. Obey, Alan. Imagine yourself obeying me and obey. Remember when you asked me earlier what I’m mad about? This is it. I’m mad about control. I’m mad about obedience. I thrive on the realization I can make you do whatever I want, make you believe whatever I want, and you always comply. Obey, Alan. You will obey. Tell me what you will do.”
“I will obey.”
“Why did you say that, Alan?”
“I... I don’t know.”
“You did it because you must. You must obey. Every time I’m in your mind, you must obey and I’m always in your mind. Say it one more time for me, dear.”
“I must obey,” he repeated.
“Yes, you must. And here’s the funny thing. This is just you imagining being hypnotized right now. This is you sleeping a peaceful sleep after too many hours writing everything you had locked within. When you wake up and I hypnotize you for real, it will be so much better. I may even become the dominatrix of your wildest dreams and slowly and surely turn you into my devoted slave. It is what you’ve always wanted, is it not?”
“Y-yes, K-katherine...” Alan stammered. “Please enslave me.”
“Soon, my pet. Soon, I promise. I would do it right now but you need to finish your next tale and here comes the dreadful...”
Bzzt!
Alan heard the familiar buzz. Startled, he banged his head against the half-open laptop before his chair slid away from him as if possessed by a playful poltergeist. Another 500 words done, the writing session finally reaching its term. Under the desk, Max snored, a piece of oozing rubber on his soft pink underbelly. He would never care about his owner’s daily word count just as long as he could lay at his feet like that.
“What a weird dream,” the writer muttered, half-sleepy eyes lingering on the four empty beer cans he didn’t remember drinking. “Perhaps trying to come up with a story about a female hypnotist wasn’t such a good idea after all.”
Dragging himself into the kitchen, he tossed the evidences of liquid sin away, quoting Poe’s raven as he did so: “Nevermore, geez!” He didn’t see the burgundy lipstick on neither of them, nor the lovely platinum blonde standing by the trash can. She touched the back of his neck with her perfectly manicured silver nails and he took no notice of it either, his focus now turned to the need of editing everything down to perfection.
Katherine followed him back to his office and smiled. When they had met three months ago outside the hotel she was staying at the time, she had no idea he would be so much fun to play with. The moment Alan drooled into trance just by looking at her plump lips, her brother told her he was a keeper and he was right. A shame Alan hardly remembered any of it when the magic happened but it was probably for the best. When he forgot, things were more intense, his wildest ideas in full bloom. Listening and obeying was no longer an option but the true reality of his subconscious mind. He would always be hers, no matter the masks before and after trance.
All his greatest creations had begun with a conversation. Tomorrow, they would have another.