Author's Notes: This story is one of the oldest I have on this site. It's dated. It's poorly written. It's juvenile. It's OC love interest (cringe). But I keep it here to remind myself of how far I've come as a writer. There were some good pieces tucked in with all the clutter…. That and it's mildly amusing to go back and read from time to time; keeps me from taking myself too seriously. Enjoy. And yes, please laugh a little with me.

"You cannot be here. Firstly, you're a story book character. Secondly, I'm not Sarah!"

The situation I found myself in was simply a hallucination. Nights of insomnia with writer's block, caffeine, and goblin research had simply left me in a suspended state of reality/fantasy mix up. I glanced down at my desk scattered with papers that were illuminated with light by my computer screen- all of my research on the realm of the Fae, goblins, and the like- it was just getting to me. I pulled strands of my red hair behind my ears.

In the past five years I had dedicated my life to the study of all things fantasy, and had determined to write a well educated work of fiction in said genre. I had been obsessed with goblins and faeries, gnomes and sprites, pixies and nymphs since my childhood. I had developed a certain hidden fantastical taste for men who spoke with accents and wore stylish clothes. The world of my book had encompassed everything; to the point where now, the lines of reality were blurring.

Then my eye caught a tattered book that simply read The Labyrinth. The cover was dog-eared and the pages smelt of time. I knew that about half way through the story, colored stills from the movie were inserted. All of the loveable characters- Ludo, Sir Dydimus, Hoggle- brought to life by talented puppeteers. It was simply a story book; a piece of pop culture memorabilia.

I looked back up.

Yet here standing in front of me, making odd conversation and proclaiming truths, was another character. The resemblance was uncanny to the actor from the movie- same blonde hair, mismatched eyes, and (darn my rem sleep), even the accent. He cocked an eye brow and casually put a hand on his hip.

"You cannot be here!" I exclaimed again, taking a step back.

He smirked. "My dear, I can be wherever I choose- the Goblin King doesn't need permission to travel about."

My next thought was to some how disengage myself from the slumber I knew my conscience self had fallen into. I was merely asleep. I glanced hurriedly around- my coffee cup sat on the desk. I reached for it, and gulped what was left of the brown brew flavored with French vanilla. Nothing. The Goblin King shook his head, obviously amused. I made ready to begin slapping my own cheeks. Before the dreadful sting though, two hands clasped my wrists.

"My dear that isn't necessary!"

"Oh yes it is!" I argued back, thinking at the same time that it seemed silly to be arguing with a figment of my imagination. "See I need to wake up! This isn't happening."

"Take a deep breath," came the calm reply. "It will sooth you."

I inhaled deeply, musing that at this point to avoid hysteria maybe it wasn't such a bad idea to cooperate. My lungs filled with strange scents- spices, flowers, and earth. The hands relaxed around my wrists. I breathed again. I smelt roses, cinnamon, fresh cut grass, and spring water.

"You cannot smell in dreams, my dear." He released me.

I looked up into his face- the smells seemed to radiate right off of his body. I shuffled back a step or two.

He was right- you cannot smell in dreams. At least, I wasn't able to. I reconsidered my situation. If indeed the Goblin King had come into my study, then perhaps it was best to know what exactly he wanted. Of course it would be nice to know how he found me, or knew me. The fleeting thought of some random fan-fiction involving him and I ran through my mind- I hope he didn't know about that piece of writing.

"So," I began. "You're really here?"

He smiled. "You smell all of those delicious scents? They are all me."

"That's quite the unique talent- most men I know smell like deodorant."

"Hmph! My personal hygiene aside, wouldn't you like to know why I am here?"

"Um, I think so. Yes, I would like to know why you are here. I mean, this situation is just plain crazy… for so many reasons. It just doesn't add up."

"Hold your inane babbling, please." He turned away from me and went to the desk. He lifted a few sheets of paper. "These!"

"What- my writing?"

"Yes, you're writing has brought me here." He filtered through a few sheets.

I stood there watching him, considering what he had said. Why would he be here for my writing? I was a dedicated lover of all things fantasy. I would sit for hours imagining smells, hearing voices, and stepping through enchanted forests without ever leaving my computer chair. Parts of me believed in the faeries, dragons, dwarfs, and elves that flowed from my mind to paper. If I couldn't actually feel it, then it wouldn't be real to my readers. So to even finer tune my writing I took to actually researching different cultures mythical backgrounds and what the Fae meant to them. I even read parts of other authors' works.

The story of The Labyrinth had been a huge inspiration for me. It was a story that had crawled into the farthest corners of my imagination and had taken up permanent residency. It wouldn't be put out; never mind all of the other novels that passed through my hands. It was a love story. It was a coming of age story. It was a fantasy story.

None of this though explained why I was seeing the Goblin King standing in my computer room. He gave me a side ways glance, "It isn't obvious to you?" he asked.

"W-what?"

"Why I'm here?"

"I'm afraid not. Quite honestly I'm not fully convinced that this is really happening."

"You'll eventually be convinced. When you write, when you see those detailed images in your mind, does it ever feel real?"

"As a rule if I don't feel it, then it can't be real to my readers."

"But isn't it more than that?" He came close, bending near. "Don't you ever feel as if a fairy were flying next to you? Or that a goblin was behind your chair?"

My mouth involuntarily gapped. No one knew about the parts of me that believed.

"It doesn't just happen with what you write either. When you read The Never Ending Story, you felt the wind whip past your face as if it were you ridding the luck dragon."

He abruptly turned away.

I blinked and closed my mouth. "Ok, so I indulge my imagination…what does that have to do with you?"

"You do more than indulge, my dear. You remind."

"Pardon?"

He went to the window and stood looking out for quite some time.