As decided by vote, here's the next challenge, proposed by Joelle Boulet:

Write a scene where a character has a conversation with themself (either via time travel nonsense, an internal back and forth, hallucinations, cloning, etc.)

Go onward and write! Then post your story here as an answer, and get feedback in the comments. If you ask a main site question while writing for this challenge, leave a comment below this question or mention it in your answer.

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2 Answers 2


Yui stood in front of the mirror. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

"Come on. You can do this" she told herself.

"No, you can't" said another voice in the room.

Yui blinked. She looked around. There was no one else in the room.

Did she imagine that? She looked at her mirror image uncertainly. Maybe the stress was getting to her. She really hated public speaking. But there was no getting out of it this time.

She breathed in deep. She locked eyes with her reflection and tried again.

"You CAN do this."

Her reflection dutifully mouthed her words. But then continued: "I really don't think you can, though."

"What—" Yui recoiled from the mirror, the shock visible on her reflected image. She slowly turned her face to the side, keeping an eye on the mirror, then turned back. The mirror reacted as it should.

She put her hands over her face and dragged them down slowly, took a deep breath and tried to recompose herself. She eyed the mirror determinedly and took a step toward it.

She reached out to touch it. It was just a mirror.

"I CAN DO THIS!" she shouted to the mirror, desperately.

"No. You can't" replied her mirror image calmly.

Yui sank to her knees, crying. "Why do you keep saying that? Why can't I."

"Because you're talking to a mirror, and it's talking back."


The children laughed and chattered behind him. He forced his breath in and out. He could even hear the woman speaking, but he could not hear the fairy tale. How Esben the Ashlad won the Princess Kari.

He staggered away, keeping behind trees and forging his way deeper into the forest. He had not the wits to forge a good tale, to explain away his distress, and if they learned he was an ashlad in truth, they would not marry him off to the princess, no matter how many dragons he slew or witches he tricked. They would murder him in their terror.

He forced himself to breathe again. The air smelled of pine needles, not smoke. He should wander far, far, far into the forest where he might meet a witch, but would not hear that tale.

Which was unjust. He himself had not only listened to those tales, he had asked for them, as a child. Before the necromancers. He looked down at his hands.

What was unjust about it? He was not telling them not to tell the tales. He was not even telling them to stop believing ill of ashchildren. He was just leaving. With his wages. He snorted at the thought. He was not going out into the wilderness, witch or no witch. He could live there for a time, but he would have to return, and buy things. He lacked the skills to live there forever.

Still, he walked on, through the trees, without even using the trails.

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