—...And they all lived miserably ever after. Now take a nap.
—It can’t end like that.
—Hush. It can.
—Dad, you don’t just--
—I did. Lean your seat back and go to sleep.
—But Black Cat wouldn’t change his mind like that. He’s too -- he’s a good person. He had his claws removed. He loved her.
—Shh. Here’s a pillow.
—White Balloon can’t just float off over the Forest of Forever to the Island of the Dead.
—Isle of the Dead. Sleep now, little girl.
—How? You just scarred me for life.
—Shhh.
—I’m telling Mom.
—I don’t answer to Mom anymore.
—I’m telling her you ended the story like that.
—Oh, she’ll understand.
—
—
—Was that a joke?
—Not at all.
—Is Black Cat supposed to be Mom?
—You’re getting very sleepy. Your eyelids are heavy. You can’t hold them open for one more second.
—Bad ending.
—Wasn’t it, though? You are entering a deep, deep sleep.
—
—
—Sir?
—Yes?
—I couldn’t help but overhear your story back here and your daughter has a point.
—She’s not my daughter. She’s an orphan I picked up off the street.
—Dad!
—Hush now.
—It was a great story, sir. You should write children’s books if you don’t already.
—I don’t.
—In any case, you know exactly what was the wrong with that ending.
—Yeah, Dad.
—Shut up.
—Ooh, I’m telling Mom about that, too.
—Sir, good stories do not end that way.
—Listen, the story was private, between us. And good stories end the way the author chooses to end them.
—I beg to differ.
—I created it, it’s my story.
—The author-as-god excuse, eh?
—Madam, I am not the least bit--
—Don’t call me that.
—Pardon me?
—Madam.
—Dad, be nice.
—I’m being nice. I’m sitting here getting harassed by a nine-year-old girl who won’t go to sleep, and some woman I don't even know pipes in. I’m being perfectly nice about it, so shut up.
—The author is not a story’s god, sir.
—If not, who is?
—A good story is its own god.
—What are you, a roving book critic?
—I apologize for interrupting, sir, but when you sent the Black Cat riding off into the sunset on the gearbox of the Insatiable Lawn Mower, you betrayed your story, if you don’t mind me saying so.
—I do.
—Well then, good day.
—Yes. Bye. Toodaloo.
—
—
—Dad?
—Yup?
—What was that?
—Turbulence.
—For a second I thought we were going to crash.
—Nope. Nap time.
—Dad?
—Uh huh?
—Why were you mean to that lady?
—I wasn’t.
—She was right.
—Of course you agree with her, sleepy head.
—Dumb ending.
—Yeah, well, that’s the point.
—I’m still telling Mom.
—Fine.
—She’ll be angry.
—What a change of pace.
—Can I ask you a question?
—What?
—If the Black Cat fell in love with the Insatiable Lawn Mower, was he ever really in love with the White Balloon?
—Ask your mother.
—I will.
—Good.
—I don’t like doing this.
—What?
—Flying back and forth.
—You think I do?
—No.
—Yeah, well.
—You still love her, don’t you?
—Whew, I’m getting sleepy. My eyelids are very heavy.
—Mom’s the Black Cat, isn’t she?
—See if I ever take the flight with you again.
—Who’s the Insatiable Lawn Mower? Carl?
—Till death do they part.
—That’s the worst ending ever.
—Amen.
Eric Bosse is a fiction writer, screenwriter and filmmaker in Montana. His stories have been published in Exquisite Corpse, Zoetrope All-Story Extra, Mississippi Review, Web Del Sol's Editors' Picks, Linnaean Street, Absinthe Literary Review, Vestal Review, Literary Potpourri, Nubrite and several other journals. His short films have shown at festivals in North America and Europe. Eric edits The God Particle, an online literary journal.