HAVE YOU EVER read a story You couldn’t put down?  This is one of those tales . . .

Sure, You scoff.  I like the confidence, but no story’s that good.  I can put it down any time I want.  I can walk and never look back.

Of course You can.  But then You’d miss what happens next.

Nice try, You reply.  However, I don’t care what comes next.  The beginning flopped.  It didn’t have a sharp enough hook.  I’m the one that got away.  I have better things to do than swallow another senseless line.

Sounds fishy.  Okay, I’ll bite.  You’re free to go.

Really?  You pause.  Wait a second, what’s the catch?

There is no catch according to You.  Hence You are officially unhooked, thrown back, rejected.  So walk, crawl or swim.  Fly if You’re not afraid of heights.  And remember, don’t pollute.

(A shiver of déjà vu.)

Just like that?  You’re giving up?

I can’t force the reader to read me.  That should be a prerogative.  A choice.

You’re still uncertain.  A conditional choice?  What’s the pen-alty?  A paper cut?  Eyestrain?  A tongue-lashing?

Very humorous.  There will be no repercussions.

Uh-huh.  No hot presses, no bindings, no pun-ishment? You question.

None of the above.

Okay.  You smile, inexplicably relieved.

(I wasn’t worried, You insist.)

Another pause.  What did you mean by rejected, thrown back?

It was an analogous allusion.  It has nothing to do with your importance.  Or your reading prowess.  You do know how to read, I assume?

What?  You perceive the page, an indignant scowl contorting your features.

Nothing, jests the pest.

Squinting at the words, You huff sarcastically.  And wait.

(A lengthy pause.)

We can’t all be scholars.

Are you calling me illiterate?

No.  I meant someone else.

How would I even be conversing with you if I couldn’t read? You berate.

I’m a story.  If You think You’re conversing with me, then I’m not your biggest problem.

Oh, so you’re calling me insane?

Don’t be silly.

You expel a disgusted snort.

But if the nutshell fits . . .

Ah-hah!  You aim an accusative finger.

For someone who could walk away, You sure haven’t gone very far.  That’s all I’m saying.

You rant, Because you keep trying to get the last word!

(A blank space.)

I do not.

Your lips foam slightly.

Now, now.  I think You’re overreacting.

Maybe a bit, You concede.

Men in white jackets?  Straight ahead.  Bring the net.

You lose your temper.  Shut your fat mouth!

I told You, I’m a story.  I have a beginning, middle, end.  I have characters.  A theme.  I do not have a mouth.

But you do have a voice!

I think we got off to a bad beginning.  Let’s wipe the slate clean and start over.

Forget it.  You’ve wasted enough of my time with your doubletalk.  And it’s too late.  The beginning’s history, past tense.  It’s begun.

Says who?  I can start fresh as often as I please.

No you can’t, there are rules to follow.  Correct procedures.

I’m creative writing.  I can amend the rules, bend the rules.  I can deform and mangle and rend the rules.  I can make them up as I go along.  I can turn them into a little song.  The kind that gets stuck in your mind.

Sorry.  Not listening.  I covered my ears after the first rhyme.

Too bad You can’t cover your eyes.

Oh yeah?

You’re peeking.  Admit it, You can’t walk away.  You can’t even look away.

This is ridiculous.  I must have dozed off.  That’s how boring you are.  It’s just a dream.

It’s no dream.  You’re still reading.

I am not.  I’ll wake up soon and when I do, you’re in the trash!

There is no trash in my universe.

What do you mean?  Clarity sinks like a stone into your reading comprehension.  Your heart races.  You attempt to wrench your eyes loose.  The words on the page capture your concentration, draw You into the story like a magnetic force.

What are you doing to me?

Welcome to The Land Of Make-Believe.

You try to resist, to tear your eyes from the font and look anywhere else.  For the tiniest of moments You can blink, disrupting the flow of gibberish.

You swing your gaze, a flicker of inattention.

Blatant curiosity obliges You to glance at the subsequent sentence . . . the successive statement . . . the following assertion . . . and You’re sucked back into the premise.

Stop that!

You entreat the story to halt its insinuative vine of intrigue.  Your eyes are locked by the prose, utterly transfixed.

I said stop!

A peevish rebellious tone enters your voice.  You beg for mercy.  The tendrils of thought continue to creep, wrapping about You like the coils of a boa constrictor.  Or is it a python?

This is absurd.

No, it’s a hungry anaconda.  You can feel the slither of soft plates as a tightening band of muscle applies pressure, tensing and crushing.  How soon till your bones snap?  How much pain can You bear?  Defiantly You struggle, wrestling the snake.  Its power only increases.  You refuse to submit, to accept that mere words can seize You and squeeze the life from your veins, from your very soul!

This isn’t real . . .

With your final breath You grate that no page is stronger than the will to be free.  The serpent vanishes.  Your courage has been tested.  You survived.  Staring at the tale, panting with exertion, You shake your head and display a puzzled frown.  It wasn’t real.  It couldn’t have been.

You heave an exhausted sigh.  It’s madness.  You opened the final chronicle of a bizarre anthology by a peculiar author — a structureless trivial pursuit, as if the writer ran out of ideas.  What a hoax.  A story too good to put down.  Hah! You jeer.

Half smirking, You consciously strive to ignore the narrative.  Which rambles onward.  Oh no, there’s more!