“And then the Cosmic King thrust his sabre into the heart of the Queen Tyranica, whispering, ‘This shall see your peoples’ debt paid, and my brother’s death avenged.'”

I grabbed another handful of popcorn, completely inthralled in the story. I couldn’t wait to hear what happened next. I munched down on my salty snack. What I was blessed to partake in was so much better than Orson Wells’ War of the Worlds radio broadcast or anything Joss Whedon ever produced. I was listening to my roommate’s sleep talking stories.

I shoved another handful of popcorn into my mouth.

“I know you are sitting there, Tony. I can hear you crunching and smell all that butter on your popcorn.”

Busted again.

“You can leave. I wasn’t talking in my sleep. Also, fiction is stupid, and I really doubt my subconscious is creating any like like that.”

“But Ahmed, you are, and it’s awesome.”

“No. I don’t believe it. Now leave me alone.”

Ahmed was a science major, I was an English major. We made for a weird bromance, but we made it work. I wished I could write stories like he did. How did he do it? Could I learn to?