Dreams of the Quill

This one’s for you, JTFish.

“Don’t count on him,” piped the dachshund.

Marin sat at her desk, dejected. It was now eight in the evening—a full four hours had passed since she had sent her boyfriend an e-mail describing her plight. He had yet to reply. So much for his boring job and his being at his computer the entire time. Marin was sure that she could have elicited a reply had she gone into detail about the nature of the book, but she hadn’t wanted her love to berate her about God and prayer.

The tome sat on the desk by her keyboard, opened to a random page. The random page, like every other to which Marin had opened the book, was blank. It was just like Dorito George had said—total hoax.

Of course, Marin didn’t feel gipped.

She had gained something incredibly interesting, albeit moderately frightening.

“Why’re you staring at me like that, girl?” the dachshund demanded.

Marin hadn’t realized that she’d been staring down at the sad-looking dog. If it wasn’t for the fact that it could talk, Marin might have pitied it. It was like that with every dachshund—they just looked deformed. This one’s especially deformed, Marin noted grimly.

“You can stop staring now.”

“Oh, right.” Marin turned her eyes back to her screen, back to her e-mail inbox. Five minutes had passed, and still nothing.

“Girls these days,” muttered the dachshund.

“I’m not going to obey you,” Marin said, eyes still trained on her screen, opening Photoshop and creating a new canvas. She pulled a drawing tablet out of one of her desk’s drawers and plugged it in.

“I suppose you also want me to believe that you’re not talking to me,” responded the dachshund. “Well, you are.”

Marin tapped herself on the forehead with her tablet pen and then began sketching.

“I know you want to know how to make El talk.”

Marin scribbled furiously, doing her best to ignore the dog’s words. She sat back five minutes later, examining her handiwork. There, sitting in a Photoshop window, was a smiling monster with round eyes and four legs and something resembling a dorsal fin sticking out of its head.

“Tomboy,” snorted the dachshund.

“Hey, what’s wrong with girls liking this stuff?” Marin asked, indignant. “I think they’re—” She stopped, realizing that she had addressed the dog again.

“You can draw whatever the hell you want, later,” the dachshund replied, grinning widely—how does he do that, wondered Marin—”but now, you’re going to listen to what I have to say. Now, I’m sure there’s something you don’t like in this world.”

Two words appeared in the forefront of Marin’s mind: the Establishment. She nodded silently.

“Then you’d do best to do what I say.”