A Conversation with the King
I was just minding my own business, playing another round of Candy Crush (just one more!) when a somewhat familiar black riding crop cracked down on the desk beside me causing me to jump about two feet and nearly upsetting the bowl of popcorn covered in powdered "cheese" on my lap.
"What the frack?" I yelled as I whirled around to face whoever it was that was disturbing my pleasant state of vegetation.
I gasped in shock as I took in the wild white-blond/gold mullet, eyebrows painted into dramatic arches, gleaming horned medallion and black leather so-tight-I-can-almost-see-his-veins pants. He grinned slightly at me, cocking his poufy head to one side.
"Y-Your Majesty," I managed to sputter. "What are you doing here?"
The Goblin King didn't answer for a moment. He looked down at my desk and poked a finger into my coffee can of colored pencils, knocking them this way and that. Finally, he looked up and his little grin became a frown.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"I live here," I answered, putting my hands on my hips.
The King narrowed his gaze at me. "That's not what I meant," he said. "And you know it."
"What are you talking about?" I asked, a bit annoyed.
The Goblin King sighed, his frustration obviously matching my own. He perched himself on the edge of my desk and looked hard into my face.
"Why aren't you writing?" he asked point blank.
His question caught me off-guard and I fumbled for a reply.
"I... I've been busy," I answered, but it came out sounding more like a question.
"Pfff!" the King replied and the wispy gold strands of hair over his forehead blew upward in a wave. "That's utter nonsense," he continued. He pointed an accusing finger at my laptop where the soft, chimey Candy Crush music was hypnotically wafting from the speakers.
"You spend hours a day on that thing, but you haven't written a word in weeks!" the Kind stated with an air of condemnation.
I remained mute, having little defense against his accusations. Instead I shrugged stupidly and tried to laugh, which only made him frown more.
"It's not funny," the Goblin King said gravely. "In fact it's very serious. I don't think you realize what's at stake."
I sighed and flopped down into my spinning desk chair and rocked it from side to side.
"Your Majesty," I began, "A fictional character from a children's movie is hardly the person to tell me about what's serious."
The King looked taken aback and stood, drawing himself up to his full height.
"For your information, I am a PG character," he said defensively, his odd eyes flashing.
"Okay, okay," I told him, putting my hands up in mock-surrender. "I get it. But what is so serious about me not writing?"
"I'll get to that," answered the Goblin King, "but first I want to know why you stopped."
I leaned back in my chair and stared at the cottage cheese ceiling. Why had I stopped? What had changed? I still loved to write and I still had ideas... How long had it been anyway?
"Since October," the King answered my thoughts. "You haven't written a scrap since the middle of October."
"Really?" I asked, surprised. It had been a long time. I hadn't meant to let it go so long, it had just happened. I'd been so wrapped up in the holidays and work and... uh-oh.
I saw the look of recognition as the King read my thoughts. He gave me a sideways glance and shook his head.
"Tisk, tisk," he chided, waving a finger back and forth. "I thought you were above letting a pair of eyes come between you and your work."
"It's not just the eyes," I responded.
The Goblin King laughed and settled back down on the corner of my desk. "No," he chuckled, "not just the eyes. It was also the accent and the poetry and the extended hour chat sessions, right?"
I sighed pathetically. "Yes, Your Majesty, you're right."
The King raised a painted eyebrow at me. "The Italian Richard Gere?" he asked with a playful nudge.
I laid my head down on my desk and moaned. "Don't remind me!" I pleaded.
"Oh, come come," said the Goblin King, poking me in the head with his riding crop. "This isn't like you at all. Why have you gotten all soppy?"
I raised my head and looked up at him. "I don't know," I answered truthfully. "I guess because he was foreign and cute and he talked like Fabio from "Top Chef."
"Seriously?" asked the Goblin King. "That's all it took to get you to set aside your work completely? I'm foreign, insanely handsome, and I have a brilliant accent. Are you going to go bonkers over me?"
"Um... don't even go there," I replied.
The King smiled and raked his fingers through his golden locks. "Yes, well..." he began. "The point is that while you've been entangled with Signori Linguini, the Underground and I have been getting moth-eaten and covered in cobwebs."
"Oh give me a break, Your Majesty," I said sarcastically. "There are hundreds, thousands of people writing stories about you. Have you checked the internet lately?"
I gave my chair a hard spin to punctuate my point.
The Goblin King put a shiny black boot against my chair, halting it mid-spin and almost throwing me into the floor. He leaned down and looked me straight in the eye.
"They're not your stories," he said flatly.
"What does it matter?" I asked after I swallowed the lump in my throat.
The King leaned back and carefully examined his riding crop.
"It matters," he told me, "because you are the one who makes me and my kingdom live. The others make their version of me and my kingdom live. I am yours and yours alone to move and shape and breathe life into."
"I don't understand."
"It's like this," the Goblin King said, picking up one of my colored pencils. "I am like this colored pencil. Lots of people have this same type of colored pencil, but they all do different things with it. However, what is important to this particular pencil is what you do with it. It's up to you to use it to make beautiful things. It has no life of its own until you take it in hand and create with it."
"Oh," I replied quietly.
"That's not all though," the King said. "You know you are much happier and more fulfilled when you are writing. If you won't do it for me, at least do it for your own benefit. This non-productive, soppy you is really rather pathetic."
"Wow. Thanks, Your Majesty," I replied, stung.
"Don't mention it," he answered, smiling benevolently. He stretched his long, lean, leather-clad legs and stood, obviously satisfied with himself. I couldn't really blame him since he'd pretty much read my mail. I knew he was right, though I hated to admit it to the smug bastard.
"Now get busy, young lady," he commanded as he swaggered toward the door. "I want to read something wonderful about myself before the end of the week."
"Yes, Your Majesty," I purred with sweet sarcasm.
The Goblin King paused in the doorway and turned.
"Remember," he said, "this is just as important for your well-being as it is for mine or anyone else's. You have to nurture yourself. You can't get everything you need from anyone else. Stop making excuses and just let it go. Got that? Let. It. Go. Do you want me to sing the song?"
I picked up a colored pencil and pointed it at him. "If you do, I'll use this pencil to make your right eye match the left one."
"Right then," the King said with a smile. "I'll be going and leave you to your work."
He disappeared in a poof of sparkle and smoke before I could even wave goodbye. I sat staring at the somewhat glittery space he had just occupied for some time before turning back to my laptop. I clicked the X at the top of the page and Candy Crush disappeared. Straightening my back, I opened Microsoft Word and stared at the cursor for a moment before typing in bold at the top of the page:
A Conversation with the King
THE END
A/N:
I have been suffering from an unfortunate bout of creative constipation brought on by too much Italian. Hopefully, this little story dump is only the first of many on my road to recovery.
I know it's a bit cryptic, but it's that way by design. And no, I will not elaborate on Signori Linguini. I'll just say I was distracted by the call of Roma and leave it at that.
Yes, I am back. Hopefully for good. *Throws confetti* Yay!