Morgan

Writers must contemplate meeting their creations at least once. I have on numerous occasions, mostly when I sat alone in my room. I’d imagine Alastair seated at the end of my bed telling me I can ace the next test if I believe in myself. (Even if I never aced it and often waddled out of class with a solid C followed by brief questioning of my own sanity.)

When my parents forgot to pick me up from school because of a late meeting, or my siblings did something incredible, Alastair reminded me that, one day, I’d be incredible too. I was just a silly, lonely kid who couldn’t stand up to the unkillable spider permanently residing in the corner of my room, let alone anything or anyone else, so I made a character out of everything I wanted to be instead.

Now Alastair’s in front of me in all his outstanding glory. So utterly clueless in an almost frightening way, and yet, eerily intelligent and swift on the uptake. It’s almost unnerving how brilliant I actually made him. He’s quick to ask questions and equally as quick to answer. I hadn’t even considered if the fantasy world would continue without Alastair’s presence, but he has already devised possibilities.

Sitting at the island, Alastair ponders in silence, stormy gray eyes dark in thought. While he’s plotting how to fix this, I’m debating what kind of sauce to dip my chicken tenders in, how much it’ll cost to fix the hole in my wall, and if Alastair is useful with a hammer and nails. I need to order a new desk. Look at me once, and you’ll know I’m no Bob the Builder type.

The microwave beeps. I offer Alastair the first plate, about to ask what sauce and drink he wants, until I remember he probably doesn’t know. I get him some tea and buffalo sauce since the tenders aren’t as buffalo-y as the name describes.

“This constitutes as a fulfilling meal in your world?” Alastair asks, not bothering to hide his disappointment. “There is hardly anything here. No wonder you are so craven.”

Did he insult me or give me a vampire name?

“We must hunt bigger game. Your ice box should hold the meat of a stag nicely,” he finishes.

“There will be no huntings of stags. And I normally have bigger meals, but this was very last minute so, please, just eat.”

That’s a lie. I live primarily on slightly edible microwavable meals, strong coffee, and extreme self-loathing. Gordon Ramsey would contemplate murder in the first degree if he ever laid eyes upon my typical meals, then my ghost would rise from the grave to request Gordon not go to trial because I deserved the punishment. Especially considering I can cook. I just don’t want to.

I dip one of the tenders in the sauce to offer Alastair. When he takes a bite, his eyes widen like he has seen the answers to life, gazed upon the world after death, and returned to spread the gospel.

“Buffalo Chickens are incredible!” he declares around a moan. “The fluff of the breading soothes the soul. The tenderness of the meat could warm an icy heart. And the spice of the sauce numbs the tongue, but doesn’t dampen the flavor. What a magnificent creature this must be to produce such an exquisite taste!”

Creatures. Plural, is probably more accurate considering I doubt it’s 100% chicken, but I’m not bringing that up or questioning that passionate speech about an $8 bag of ambiguous poultry.

“Glad you enjoy them, but, setting aside your newfound romance, do you have any idea on what we should do now?”

“Yes.” He licks his fingers, having devoured his plate in time for my own to come out of the microwave. Alastair holds out his hand. “Ah, there is more? How delightful!”

“But this is—”

Alastair snatches the plate. I’m not foolish enough to get between an animal and his food, so I get more from the freezer.

“My idea,” Alastair speaks between bites, “Pertains to my earlier proposal concerning your desire for courtship. As it was the catalyst for my sudden appearance, it may also be the catalyst for my return. We will find you a boyfriend. Afterwards, maybe your love for writing will return.”

“Find me a boyfriend?” I repeat, gawking at him. “You make it sound like I can snag someone from the grocery store. They’re not exactly lined up with price tags.”

Alastair stares, buffalo sauce staining his lips. He smacks those lips together, then asks, “What is a Grocery Store?”

I’m going to have to edit everything I say to prevent further confusion.

“Like a marketplace where people sell food,” I explain, hoping that Alastair having devoured two plates in less than five minutes means he is full.

Alastair nods in understanding.

“Could it really be as simple as getting me a boyfriend, though?” I ask, taking my food from the microwave. I choose not to use sauce, purely to spare myself from getting close to Alastair when I’m holding his new love. “That sounds so… hopelessly optimistic.”

“Why? Something that simple possibly brought me here,” Alastair argues.

Quite an argument it is. I haven’t got a response, so I shove a whole chicken tender in my mouth, hoping I don’t look too much like a loser in front of the wickedly attractive prince. Not that it matters seeing as he is my creation, and I’d never give him such low standards.

“Have you tried visiting a brothel for an evening of feverish courtship?” I choke on the chicken tender, but he continues. “I’ve heard many people speak of finding love in an evening of provocative dancing beneath silk sheets.”

“I’m n-not looking to get laid,” I whimper, flushing when I realize what Alastair’s going to say before he says it.

“This world has such queer phrases. What are Laids, and are they bad if you aren’t looking for them?”

Sign me up for a How to Communicate with a Fantasy Character class.

“Listen,” I sigh, nibbling on my food to stall for a moment. “When I said I want a boyfriend, I mean I want love. Not a night of… provocative dancing.”

Not yet, anyway. Plus I don’t have silk sheets. They’re cotton. And Star Wars themed. Which may or may not pertain to my forever alone status.

“I want to date someone and feel special, like butterflies in my stomach, understand?” I watch him for a reaction that is little more than a serene stare.

Alastair leans against the island, interlocking his fingers. A beat of silence passes where his gaze dims, as if he isn’t present. Then the light returns, an idea almost visible in his eyes. He smirks.

“You’ve stumbled upon marvelous luck, Morgan,” he declares, suddenly rising to stand tall and bright. “Your lackluster love life will end soon because I am by your side!”

“Y-You?”

Alastair eagerly nods and slaps his chest. “I will become your matchmaker prince!”