I have to admit that I am Blessed to be able to do what I want for a living --- which is write. I have the luxury of working from home. I live in the most exciting city on the planet. When I'm not whining about needing a girlfriend, I count my blessings.

BUT I have one other whine: I am being paid relatively well to be a writer, but I don't get to write what I want.

Writing about technology and Internet pays okay. But I always thought I would be a FICTION WRITER, not an IT journalist when I grew up....

What I Would Like to Write

I believe that my journalistic work has proven that I am both prolific and can meet deadlines. At last count, I was producing copy for six publications.

Sure, I can write about distributed objects on a corporate network, or databases, or Web publishing in my sleep.

But I would love to write more about the human soul, and what it means to be human. I would love --- LOVE! --- to be free to write about the Magic in the world. The whimsy.

Listen:

I have said that Con and Alana helped me forget my dreams. But, upon reflection, I cannot say that assertion is entirely true. You see, Alexander, there is an incident which has the fingerprints of Masrui and the Alam al-Mithal all over it, and I believe at that time the dream was not intruding so much into the fabric of the true, waking world...

It was easy not to remark the incident. The visit occurred shortly after Con had returned me to New York, when I first began my balcony retreats and the shroud of the dream still overhung my perception. The friendly man padded from the apartment out into the blowing snow, as though he had come in the front door, greeted Luisa and Constance, and been conveyed on to me. I felt vaguely pleased to see him, but I did not say anything as he approached. I was in the comforting cocoon of my new invalid mode. He looked much better than when we had last met, I noticed. He was wearing an agreeable, heavy topcoat and shined shoes. He had shaven, too. There was something roguish about that achingly familiar face of his. Deceptive in that dark Errol Flynn, Clark Gable, Kevin Kline devil-may-care handsome way, I noticed this time, him all cleaned up. Still, I couldnot place who it was he reminded me of, only that he was a dead-ringer for the man I could not get in mind.

"You are looking better, Khorsa," the friendly man said to me, "much better than when we last met. I'd dare say that , cleanded up, you look almost handsome. I'd slow down on the drugs, though," he advised. "They give your eyes a droopy look."

Who was this man?

"I'm sorry that you did not find my suggested answers to Masrui's four questions adequate to your needs," he continued affably. "But I understand you found answers of your own. And that's the way it should be, now isn't it? It would be very sporting to try to crib it, like on a mathematics test, would it?

"No, certainly not. Do you mind if I sit?" without waiting for my response, he pulled a white wrought-iron chair up next to my lounge. He placed it so that he sat directly parallel to me, offering me his profile as he, too, looked out at the falling snow, the hazy gloaming of the day, and how they formed a translucent veil between us and the high-rises of Manhattan. "You like this cold?" he asked. "One would almost think you were getting ready for Death. They say Death is cold, you know? But don't believe them! It isn't logical. It would be more logical to think of Death as someplace like the womb, warm, all-encompassing, perhaps even sensual." He stamped his feet in the snow, as though to keep them warm. "All I can figure is that some idiots came up with that folderal about Death being cold because human bodies get cold after people die. Good supposition, don't you agree?"

As friendly and voluble as he was, and as much as I enjoyed his company, I had no more desire to respond to this man than to anyone else. I did not respond.

"I know you don't care about the magic any longer, Khorsa," he was saying. "My sister told me about an appointment with you at Radio City Music Hall. She thought I would enjoy the performance. But once I got there, you were not, Khorsa. You were on a train to Hartford. You can imagine my disappointment.

"To explain my point, I don't sense that you have it in you to be an escape artist any longer. I think the Keeper of Dreams, and the fact that you may also be bested by von Schlecht's chamber, have you spooked. So I had to ask myself what it would be now which keeps you from surrendering. Would you care to hear my conclusion?

"It's your wife, Constance. You don't want to lose her, so you don't want to go where she can't accompany you.

"And, frankly, I am puzzled by that, Khorsa, seeing as how you have injured her so with your duplicity, and your love of secrets. You may, indeed, have damaged the relationship and her consanguinity with you for all time. Certainly you've considered that, haven't you, my dear fellow? Well, of course you have! You're a thoughtful sort!"

The friendly man was disrupting the usual quiet of my retreat here on the balcony with these notions. In fact, I was starting to feel angry and agitated. I was glad of it when he shut up for a moment. Maybe the drifting snow, if he would take a moment to give attention to it instead of me, would begin to fascinate and lull him. I could only hope as much.

It was while he was quiet that I, provoked by my irritation, turned to study his face more closely, determined to know who he was. He remained in profile, looking out over the city. That was when I noticed how the snow was layering on his black hair, his nose, and his exposed hands where they rested on his knees. My eyes were drawn to those large, long-fingered hands by a morbid fascination. The snow should have melted on his hands. Either that, or he should have drawn his hands into the pockets of his coat to protect them against the cold. Instead, he sat there serene as the Buddha while the ice accumulated like feathers onto him. It chilled me to watch this. He seemed oblivious to my scrutiny. That was when I remembered another story, a story of---from--yes! Alana!---about the brother, the brother of The White Lady, Azrael, who comes to you as a friendly man, your doppelganger, in dreams. "It's You!" I gasped.

"I knew you were a thoughtful sort!" A smile parted His lips now, and He turned his gaze to me, three-quarter profile. "I thought my gift of the dog would prick you. I was surprised that you did not remember DuFresne's story before now, Great Khorsa." He said those last words, "Great Khorsa", with a hint of mockery in his tone.

I could feel my own heart begin to constrict in my chest, it beat more rapidly and the pounding of it drummed in my ears. "You!" was all I could manage.

"I have been tending you for my sister," He volunteered, His tone again and as ever solicitous, friendly. "She is losing patience with you, dear fellow. If you do not continue your escapes, well then you abdicate your part in the game between you. Masrui was to provoke you to be even more daring in approaching her, not less so---as now appears the case. He has incapacitated you, it seems to Me.

"And that will never do. She found you the most amusing man She'd encountered in some time, you know? She has developed a genuine fondness for you, I believe. But not like this, Khorsa. Like this you are a bore. Worse than a bore: you imitate Death in life."

I thought my head would split. His damned volubility was only making me more angry.

"That's it, dear fellow! Show a pulse! Get worked up! That's oh so much better!"

"What pleasure do You two get from tormenting me?" I demanded.

"`Tormenting'? Is that how you take it?

"That is the farthest from our intentions. I have tried to be a friend to you, haven't I? My sister, on the other hand was summoned by you, Khorsa. You tempted Her, only then to cheat Her. My analysis was that that was intrinsic to what you do. The escapes would not be any fun for you without the element of possibly dying, would they?

"Handcuffs and jail cells bore you, Khorsa. I can tell. You want to slip out of the Iron Maiden the moment before the razor-sharp spikes are driven into your eye sockets, your heart and lungs, your liver and your groin.

"How can you turn that around in such a way as to imply that We are tormenting you? It seems like quite the reverse to me. You are teasing my sister. Frankly, Her patience with you astonishes me. I myself would simply do you and be done with it. Not as sporting as she, I suppose..."

But no one is looking for --- or paying for that --- and my rent comes due every first of the month.

So I'm stuck with being an Internet pundit....

It could be worse, I guess. I could go back to being an IT contractor and not writing that much at all. I could just live with quiet desperation....


ROD AMIS has published this magazine since 1990. It first appeared as a hardcopy 'Zine. In March, 1996, he launched it here on the Internet.