. . .

Six o'clock on a christmas morning.

4/21/2004

I'm sick, Jeremy. I'm real sick.

That's all I thought you should know. Bye.

Rhea

The little note moved angrily in his pocket as his footsteps flooded the path between here and home. He still thought of it as home, though he hadn't been there in years. The place you grow up in never quite leaves you behind. It's true that you can never go back. It's also true that you can never leave.

The doorbell rang ahead of him. Ah, he thought. House knows I'm here. How nice. He hurried a little as the door opened. As the door started to close again, he threw himself inside. He grabbed a passing lampshade for support and held tightly.

The door closed completely. He heard the lock *click*. "House!" he spoke aloud. The wall nearest him bulged outward. It was too derivative, he thought. The High House was the nearest approximation, and he knew that this story was a complete piece of whatever passed for faeces at this time of the morning, but he was condemned to continue.

The wall nearest him bulged outward. A mouth formed, and with it, a hand, a left one today. "Good to *scccch* see you back, Jere*ccht*Jeremy," House said, approximately. It held out its hand for him to shake. He shook it gingerly. House had never acknowledged him quite as openly before.

"Is Rhea..."

"I'll take you to her. She's up the Winding Tree."

"I remember the way, I think."

"I'll take you to her anyway."

The wall bulged back inward and wobbled a bit before stabilizing into an abstract sculpture, a landscape under a full druid. A light began to form, and with it, Elsie. Elsie had been six when he left. She was still six now. She'd always be six, always and always. She was tall, and naked, as always. His dick began to stir with memory as he looked at her. She had been created, originally, to help him figure out what it was for. Because of her, he would always have a taste for the few people on the Outside with hair of red and gold.

She stooped, touched his dick lightly through his pants (it stirred again), and turned without a word and started climbing the roller coaster they happened to be in front of. Eagerly, he hurried after her. They climbed in companionable silence for a while as the landscape around brightened to the color of melted butter. When he could stand the silence no longer, he asked, "How is she?"

There was only one she in House. Everyone else was an it or a when. Jeremy thought he might have gotten heness himself by now, but he wasn't entirely certain how one earned the distinction. In a colorless voice, Elsie told him, "She's in much pain. House is unstabilizing."

This is garbage, Jeremy thought. Whoever is writing this story needs to get laid and be shot, in that order. He reached out and patted Elsie's bare butt as he thought. Then, he grabbed her breasts and started licking the nipples. The two managed a small, tight little orgy on the steps of the Palace of Mystery. Which was in the House. The House contained multitudes.

I rather think not, Jeremy continued to muse, as his dick was sucked by a succession of loose-limbed, fatal women. I think the writer has problems. Either that, or he's tired and trying desperately to come up with anything that might possibly interest him, and he grabbed the first idea he had for writing anything and followed it and this is where its taking him. Now, he's abandoning it in favor of porn, as he's feeling a little horny, as sometimes happens in the mornings. It's too early for this. Still, that's no reason not to continue.

I could... _he_ could change ideas altogether, Jeremy, who, remember, is the point of view of this story, more or less, thought to himself. It would be easier than this jumping around. Is the author trying to be surrealist? Couldn't he pick a more restrained version of surrealism? I could come up with better garbage than this in a heartbeat just by combining random words. "Victor peter Michael salamander Fruit cake Turpentine rose Bush!" he shouted loudly, plunging into Elsie's waiting orifice (mustn't forget there is sex going on. All is validated by sex.). He was right. Or, rather, as he is a personification of the author, of sorts, the author himself is coming up with random words, and they, together, are better than this story. As the story was appearing by letting random words drift to the forefront of the author's mind, this is strange.

"Oh, god!" Jeremy said, in a moment of realization, as Elsie shuddered and gasped. "Freud was right! This is a wish fulfillment fantasy! In a moment, I'll realize that House is imaginary, a way for me to control people, that you are external and I'm performing some sort of strange telepathic mind control to get you to obey my every command."

Elsie looked his strangely. "You're wierd," she said, and giggled.

Look, Jeremy thought as he climbed to his feet. There's only a couple minutes left in the Mandatory Writing Time. What say you give it up and we'll call it a day, hmm? Two minutes. Two minutes isn't much. One minute now. Give it up a minute early, and I promise you all the kingdoms of heaven and earth.

The author took him by the hand and held him dangling above the highest mountain in the world. "See." The author's voice resonated. "See! I don't have to do anything. My time is over."

For now, author. For now.