Minutes spent alternating between chatting with my offsider and answering comments and messages on Wattpad. Edgar and Rosie will have to wait till later, I reason. Their escapade has taken a turn which requires some rather stealthy moves on my part.

Discussing the Dark Ages my protégé and I this hour. Throwing theories about as to why the period came to pass and what was lost. How many books in particular were destroyed or secreted away? He is especially enthralled by this mystery and I indulge him, drawing on my pool of captured knowledge filed away through the years and most of it sitting unshared. Why we get along so well the two of us: His young mind thirsts and my much older one offers up quenching responses... most of the time. The rest of the time - I kill the English language, over and over. My out there 'perfectionist self' bearing little resemblance to the self in here.

Toggle screens while he is typing again and thank a new follower. Prompts me to quickly scroll through the list looking to see if maybe Stephen has joined? Haven't seen him since my brother's birthday over a year ago - when he'd grabbed my new number and promised to come past, look in on mum and dad? They are both very fond of him and I'd thought it a nice gesture back then. Of course, I set him aside after that.

That he is to be my plus one at an upcoming family event has enlivened me somewhat. Picking up the phone a couple of days ago - I too understood I am fond of him. The friendship existing before those crazy months survives almost intact. I'd blurted out the invitation without pause - what with Dylan being in Korea on that date and Marcus not interested - the thought of my aloneness had been weighing me down? And this is one event I want to attend; a peak moment in my brother's career... Stephen playing a big part of this history we are to celebrate that night. How I justify my impulse?

The fact I also told him about Wattpad and my writing? Another blurted in the moment revelation I have since debated over and over. Why did I do it? What's with me and this sudden need to invite people in? I don't want people in!

My off-sider's "Ping!" brings me back to the messages between us. "So you think man before the Dark Ages was a lot smarter?"

"Perhaps? There are many things which cannot be ezolained?" I glance up and see the error. "explained!!!!" Quickly correcting but not before he's caught it and answers.

"ezolained hey? That's a new one."

"Shit ip!!!!"

"Lololololol"

"ohhhhhhhhhhhhh" I laugh into my pink sleeve so as not to wake anyone. I laugh so much my bladder is threatening to leak. "Stop!" I add since this is sure to turn into another word fiasco.

"I'm not doing anything?"

I type quickly, without looking up as usual until after I've jabbed the enter key? "Yes you are!" I then try steering the conversation back to less insanity. "Things settle down with the riots at all or still conituing?"

"conituing sure. it's got a good ring to it definitely needs to be part of our dictionary"

"Noooooooooo!" I know he's laughing and part of me likes it, the fact I bring laughter to him. I think of his living away from home... stuck in a room, studying under impossible conditions and it pleases me, bringing some merriment to his days? There's riots going on there right now - two neighboring States fighting over water - and he was sent home from College yesterday. The mother in me worried. I sided with his parents and told him to stay home, stay indoors until everything had calmed down.

"My flat mate popped his head in, wondering why I am laughing so much lol"

I giggle at the image his words present. Giggle yes, swept up in the hilarity. He shares a house with several other students and I've come to know about them over time. Then I laugh more because I am laughing? I feel as young and care-less as him right now; I feel no weight, no pressing darkness pinning me to the glumness I have lived so long.

"Hang in" I tell him. Bring up the 'Random Thoughts' doc and quickly type "A PARABLE" as a heading followed by "There is a young man. He has the words - so many words - but he lacks years or what one might call 'experience' and the distinct disadvantage of knowing any craft needs work, needs time and mostly patience; something youth is short on.

He comes across an old writer one day - quite unexpectedly - her skin wrinkled by years; her face etched by lines of discontent and discord and yet, he sees the eyes... the old writer's eyes are twinkling as though - as though a younger version, a funny, witty and disarming version is extending welcome to him?"

"Back" I type. My mind lingers though on what I jotted down. Maybe one day...

"Np"

"Hey, you think we could turn these conversations into parables?" I don't have to ask if he understands the word. He's smart. Despite English being his second language he writes it faultlessly and comprehends it far beyond his years... though I do from time to time throw some obscure words his way just to have some fun at his expense and to make up for my atrocious typing?

"We'd need to cut out a lot of the stuff we talk about?" he suggests.

"Yeah..." The daunting prospect of sifting through over two hundred thousand words stops me from adding many more to this thread. "Anyway, something to think about."

"Sure"

"Crap, hold on, I thought I heard something"

"Go!!!"

Open my bedroom door and listen. The house seems quiet. Not the quiet of the bush, where absolute silence reigned apart from the odd sound of a nocturnal animal; this is a different quietness where the mind must make distinctions between sounds within and those outside. Filter out as usual the traffic from the nearby freeway; a neighbor's car stopping, a garage door opening; further afield the screeching of tyres as hoons race each other. A fading siren. Nope, no one is stirring inside. I go downstairs anyway and check on mum and then dad, waiting at his doorway for the next breath. Both asleep.

"All goog"

"lol goog it be"

"No!!!!" Too late, I see my newest blunder. "Go! Eat, sleep, whatever!!!! I'm done!"

"You feel like writing?"

"maybe" I say though there is still no such clear intention in my head. "Hey, you think writers, I mean non-fiction writers, you think they use people?"

"Huh?"

"Been mulling over something. How callous I am, using bits and pieces of private conversations to create writing?"

"All writers do that?"

"No, hard to explain. Someone might send me a private message and next minute I'll go blah... and there's another Brief Bites piece? Then of course guilt sets in? I feel awful because I feel I have no right?"

"Sure, I am facing the same dilemma with the new book?"

"That why you've not updated?"

"That and power cuts and no internet remember?"

"Yeah... you got it tough." He's just back from summer break and the Wi-Fi still to be turned on, a week later. Relying on a dongle and keeping browsing to a minimum.

"But I know what you mean. Exposing people's stuff without their permission? But they were a part of the time you are describing, right? so I can't see how you avoid this?"

"Well in normal circumstances you call it fiction and add the disclaimer? But in NF you don't have that luxury, since you are writing real?"

Bothering me for some time now this thought. I have called myself everything from selfish to arrogant, to callous to downright despicable. Questions arise: Do I manufacture situations in order to write about them? Do I instigate reactions in others so that I can take those reactions and weave them into pieces? Is any of it really real, or merely crafted and manipulated to suit my purpose?

I use my children! I take their words and share them with 'the world' and I do this without hesitation or contemplation. Their words! Do I have the right? Is everything fair game to a writer?

Of course every time I dwell on this, it brings me back to him, and similar instances. Wondering if he knew, whether he'd be more cautious with his words and... with me? This time I make a note to ask him, since a new book is forming in my mind and-

"We are awful," I say. "We chase words and the consequences be damned?"

"No? There's always a price to be paid?"

Huh. I sit back and read what he's written. "A price to be paid." The words bite. I am both amazed by his insight and astounded by the truth within it. How many times have my words resulted in self-doubts and mental anguish... let alone the disastrous emotional aftermath? "yep, know that too well."

"So pointless stressing?"

He grounds me this kid. Introduces logic, his mind much clearer than my own far too cluttered one.

"Off with you! Go eat, sleep whatever!"   

 "Now you're going to write aren't you? lol"

 "......bye....................." I sign off and close down my protégé's chatbox. I want to write, sure.

Truth be told though, I am missing him. So much I cannot contain it; I examine it from all angles, dive in and poke around and stir up all the undergrowth, looking to rustle up some meaning as the minutes pass. Like how I got to here. Why him. And foremost, words. My need to have someone hear me, know me, not as a story but as a person; flawed and damaged and vulnerable. Is there a purpose to this? I open up his chat box and stare at his profile picture. There is intimacy within this act. Hand inside my robe, I feel the spot on my shoulder where the tattoo sits. Crazy woman, sure. Permanently branding myself only because I needed anchoring, a connection to another. 

I stare out the window. Just black. No stars, no moon. No words. Only thoughts, and the first twinges of the back-ache. Lower my legs and feel the stiffness and the fluid collected from lack of movement. Get up. Walk over to the boys' room and look down at their sprawled forms on the single mattresses on the floor. The dog gazes up, tail beginning to wag.

My little family. It dwells within another family but we are good the three of us. Yes, I think I will bring Dewey home a kitten for his birthday; he too needs someone to love and to take care of? His eyes stare up at me as though he can read my thoughts. Perhaps he can?