They sit there scribbling away in my writer's workshop. Some are clicking like crazy on their laptops. Twelve writers, all ages, both sexes, a couple of young ones. They trust me, look to me for inspiration. I have just finished a 90 minute exploration of writers' fears. It went over well--it always does.
I'm very convincing as an academic. I have an understanding expression. They come to me with their blocked novels, their lousy syntax, their failures and rejections. And I comfort them. Constructive criticism, that is who I am in their eyes.
The library is empty and quiet, except for us, ensconced in the conference room. All of them have lives, histories, families. A part of me is sad they will never see any of that again. Because very shortly, both doors will burst open and my beloved species, firing stun guns, will take over, loading all twelve into the mother ship hovering in the night sky. They will be examined and eventually displayed for our race's amusement.
Yes, I will finally be returning to my world, see my family again, and resume my real existence. They will hate me, these writers, but after some eons, perhaps they'll appreciate the opportunity no other human has experienced, except those skateboarders from California. There has to be a book in this.
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