Madame stood at the head of the long table and smiled out at the gathered listers. It was the first ever in-person meeting of her Long Title Fanfic Workshop list. The Monkees were on their Millennium World Tour, and, after much consultation about work and school schedules, it had been mutually decided that the Detroit stop of the tour would be the one concert everyone could attend, and listers had come from across the country to make an appearance. Using the old axiom of "any excuse for a party," they had decided to hold a little pre-concert gathering at Weefers' place. Now, crowded into the cozy dining room, cyber-friends and family were busily getting to know one another, without the benefit of modems or e-mail.

"I can't believe that all four Monkees are performing together again!" enthused Madame.

"I know," Enola agreed. "After Davy put the stops to the movie idea, I thought we'd never see them work together again!"

"Never say never," espoused Weefers. "You know they're always surprising us. Who would have ever thought that they would get together to do "Justus," or the ABC special?"

"Well, I don't care why they got back together," Mary said. "I'm just glad they did! I can't wait for the concert! Do we have good seats, Weefers?"

"The Fox Theater doesn't have a bad seat," Weefers laughed, naming the beautifully ornate historic venue that the guys were playing. "Row 5, Center section. So close you'll practically be able to touch the tummy fuzz!"

"Is it getting warm in here," Madame asked, fanning herself with her hand, "or is it just me?"

The group broke out in laughter, knowing Madame's vivid imagination was wreaking havoc with her composure.

"We'd better stop right now," Len said, wiping the tears from her eyes. "I don't think we have enough ice for all of us!"

"You're right!" Weefers agreed. "Anyway, we have to get going or we'll be late. Parking's a real bear downtown, and I don't want to miss one minute of this! Now, does everyone have directions? Yes? Let's go!"

They moved as a group to the front door, Madame in the lead. Reaching for the doorknob, Madame jumped back in surprise as it began turning on it's own.

"What the hell!" she said, as the door swung open. "Don't you believe in knocking, you...." Suddenly turning pale, Madame slammed the door shut, leaning with her back against it as if to bar the intruder.

"What is it?" Shells demanded. "You look like you've seen a ghost!"

"It's...it's..." Madame stuttered, unable to form the words.

"Let me through," sighed Weefers, pushing her way to the front of the group. "I'll handle this." Reaching for the door, she pulled it open.

"Can I help you..." Weefers' voice died away as she saw who was standing on the stoop. There, on her very doorstep, stood the Monkees, 60's style. These were not the modern day men in their fifties, but four young men in their twenties. Mike was in his wool hat, Peter in a loud paisley shirt, Davy with numerous strings of love beads around his neck, and Micky with his adorable, fuzzy-wuzzy hair. This has got to be a dream, thought Weefers. I know the Monkees are in town, but not these Monkees.

"We're looking for the Long Title listers," Mike said sternly.

"Th..that's us," Weefers admitted. "Would you like to come in?"

"Thank you," Micky said, pushing Mike through the door in front of him, Davy and Peter bringing up the rear.

"Um, maybe we should go to the living room," said Ziggy, who seemed to be the only one whose brain was still functioning. Adjourning to the large room, the listers filled the various chairs and the sofa, the remainder finding seats on the carpeted floor or on the open staircase. The Monkees remained standing, declining all invitations to sit.

"Which one of you is Madame?" Mike asked, arms crossed.

"I am," said Madame from her perch on a chair arm.

"You're the leader of this little group?" Peter asked, his dimpled smile conspicuously absent.

"I'm the list moderator," Madame affirmed. "Is there some problem with that?"

"You mean you don't know?" Davy asked.

"Know what?" Madame asked. "Listen, why don't you just come out and tell us what the problem is?"

"The problem is this fanfic you people are always writing," Mike said. "You may not know this, but what's fiction in your world is reality in ours."

"Huh?" said Penny. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that whenever you write a story about us, we have to live it--your stories are our lives!" Mike leaned against the doorway, face still set in unfriendly lines.

"You mean...oh, my God!" Jed squealed, grabbing Ajax by the arm. "And I never even finished my 'End is the Beginning' series! I just left them hanging!"

"But how in the world did you get here?" asked the ever practical Kittie. "You guy's aren't even real!

"Yes we are!" protested Peter. "Our world is just as real to us as this world is to you!"

"Okay, but that still doesn't explain how you got here!" said Lenora, always looking for a solid scientific reason for the unexplained.

"Ask Micky!" Davy snorted. "Mr. Wizard invented some sort of device that let's us travel between dimensions."

"That's my Daddy!" grinned Lenora.

"Your what?" yelled Micky.

"Never mind, Micky," Peter soothed. "Let's just do what we came here for."

"Right, man" Micky agreed.

"Just what did you come here for?" asked Rinnie.

"We needed to see one of you especially," Mike began.

"Yeah, we've got a real bone to pick with her!" Micky agreed.

"Which one of us?" Weefers asked cautiously, remembering the time she'd given Mike and Micky the chicken pox.

"Well, I have to say that you've all given us a bad time of it now and again," Mike replied. "But one of you seems hell-bent on making our lives one crisis after another.

Madame cringed, thinking of the trials and tribulations she'd written in her soap opera.

Mary tried to look innocent, all the while recalling the lycanthropy stories she'd concocted.

The Round Robin writers looked at each other, guilt written on their faces.

Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Weefers cleared her throat. "All right, we're all here, so tell us--who is it you want to speak with?"

The guys looked at each other, then answered in unison:

"ENOLA JONES!"

Deafening silence filled the room after The Monkees' stunning announcement.

Finally, Enola stood to face her favorite writing subjects. "I'm Enola Jones," she stated, voice shaking ever so slightly.

"You were wrong, Mike," marveled Peter. "She doesn't look like a twisted, maniacal..."

"Can it, Pete!" Mike quickly clapped his hand over Peter's mouth.

"Why did you want to see me in particular?" En asked, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "All of us here write fanfic--and we've all put you guys in some pretty weird situations!"

Mike turned to his band mates. "Micky, will you read from the record, please?"

"Sure thing, Mike." Pulling a small notebook from his back pocket, Micky flipped to the first page. "Let's see, where to start, where to start? With the Trauma Series, maybe?" Clearing his throat, Micky put on his best court-reporter's voice. "'Texas Darkening'--Mike goes blind. 'World of Silence'--Davy loses his hearing. 'Still Life'--I'm paralyzed while doing a werewolf imitation!" He glared at Enola. "Do I even need to get into the rest, or are you seeing a pattern here?"

"Hey, I didn't write those alone," Enola protested, pointing an accusing finger at Madame. "She helped!"

"It was your idea, Shotgun!" said Madame, earning a strange look from Mike.

"The Power Monkees series," Micky continued. "Peter blinded, Mike rendered temporarily mute, Davy blind and mute, Mike and Peter mind-linked, Mike and Peter merged into one person..."

"I get the idea!" Enola interrupted. "Come on, you guys--was it really all that bad? I fixed everything--well, almost everything--in the end, didn't I?"

"So you did," agreed Mike. "And now, we think it's time that you get a taste of your own medicine."

"Wha..." Enola sputtered, then fell silent. She blinked her eyes rapidly, then closed them for a long moment before opening them again. The other gasped in horror as they realized that those eyes were glazed and unfocused.

"I'm blind!" Enola cried, hands going to her face. "What have you done to me?"

"Simply giving you an example of what you've been putting us through," Mike answered. "Now maybe you realize what it's like for us."

"Now, wait a minute, guys!" Madame protested, moving to stand beside her cyber-sis. "Enough is enough--it was fiction! We had no idea what was happening in your dimension!"

"Well, there is a way we can return her sight..." Davy began.

"What is it?" En asked, brightening somewhat. "I'll do anything!"

"Anything?" Peter asked solemnly.

"ANYTHING!" Enola repeated.

Peter looked at her intently. "Even if it means never writing fanfic again?"

The room was silent for a few stunned seconds, then all hell broke loose.

"Never write fanfic again?"

"Give up writing?"

"You must be joking!"

"Don't do it, En!"

The cacophony went on unabated until silenced by a shrill whistle from Madame.

"That's enough, people!" Turning to the Monkees, she drew herself up to her full height, bringing her eyes level with Mike's chest. Hands on hips, she tilted her head back and looked him straight in the eye. "So, that's the deal, huh? En quits writing fanfic about you, and you guys restore her sight?"

"That's the deal," was the unequivocal answer.

"That stinks!" exclaimed Madame. "Why don't you just cut off her right arm while you're at it?"

"Please, don't give her any ideas!" groaned Micky.

"It's all right." All eyes turned to En at those quietly spoken words. "Ican live without writing fanfic, but I can't live like this," she gestured at her eyes. "If I promise not to write about you guys anymore, will I be able to see again?"

"You have our word," said Peter.

Enola took a deep breath, willing herself the strength to utter the dreaded words. "I prom..."

"Wait!" Lenora jumped up from her seat on the floor. "Don't promise them a thing, En!"

"But I want to see again, Lenora!" En cried. "I have to do this!"

"Just give me a minute," Len replied. "I think I'm on to something, here." Brain frantically working, Len approached the fanfic Monkees. "Would you mind answering a few questions?"

"Sure, Doll," answered Micky.

Len's mouth dropped open as she realized she was standing face to face with Micky Dolenz, or at least some incarnation, real or not, of her favorite Monkee. Forcibly pulling in the reins of her pleasantly runaway thoughts, Len sized up the four men. "Let me just get a few things straight. You say that you guys actually live out our stories?"

"That's right, Luv," Davy affirmed. "It happens just the way you write it. Like a bloody bad movie every day, it is."

"And you have no control over what happens?" Len probed. Enola perked up visibly. If anyone could figure out what was happening, it was Len. Her characters moved from dimension to dimension all the time. En could practically hear the wheels turning in Lenora's mind.

"Not a whit!" Mike said disgustedly. "We don't even get to decide what clothes we wear! And I'm sick of wearin' black all the time!" he added, casting a meaningful glare at Madame.

"Ummm..." Lenora said noncommittally. "Listen, why don't you guys go upstairs? We need to talk for a few minutes."

"Fine by us," Mike agreed, after a quick huddle with his comrades. "But the deal still stands." The four made their way up the stairs, brushing past several star-struck listers as they went.

"What are you up to?" hissed Madame.

Lenora waited until the Monkees were safely upstairs before she answered. "Don't you guys get it?" she crowed excitedly.

"Get what?" asked Mary.

"They live out our stories!" Len replied.

"So?" Mary said in exasperation. "We know that!"

"So," Len drawled, "there's only one way the Monkees could show up in our dimension...."

"Out with it, Len!" growled Madame.

"It's so obvious!" she said, laughing. "The only way this whole scenario..." she made a sweeping gesture of the room "...could happen, is if it was written in a fanfic!"

"You mean..." Madame said, realization dawning on her face.

"Exactly! One of us wrote this whole thing." Lenora looked around the room, taking in the gathered writers one by one. "The only question is....which one?"

"I can't believe this!" groaned Madame. "Someone on Long Title wrote this?"

"You got it!" replied Len. "Apparently one of us has a pretty weird imagination."

"I thought that was a prerequisite for this list!" said Lady Allyson, causing a brief round of knowing snickers.

Madame looked at her little group of faithful listers. Who among them was strange enough to have concocted this little tale of revenge? Shells? No, she had written with En; and could be subject to a little revenge herself for "Bringing up Davy." Mary? She'd written that series about lycanthropy, after all. Jed or Ajax, who'd outdone each other with their evilness during the recent Round Robin?

"Ahhh...Madame?."

Heads whipped around at the hesitant words. Standing along the far wall of the room was one of their own, hand halfway raised.

"WEEFERS!"

Weefers cringed as she faced the accusing glares of her fellow writers. "Surprise?" she said weakly.

"You wrote this?" asked Madame, arms crossed, toe tapping impatiently.

"Yes," Weefers replied, head bowed. "I'm sorry, En."

"And to think I gave you 'Wall!'" Madame said disgustedly. "How in the world did you come up with this?"

"It was supposed to be a surprise for you all," Weefers admitted. "When we all decided to get together here, I started writing this story. It was just a little joke--a chance to have fun with everybody. I swear I never meant for this to happen!"

"Lot of good that does En!" said Madame. "All right, Lenni--it looks like you're the expert on these things. So what do we do now?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "How does the story end, Weefers?"

"It.....doesn't." Weefers answered softly. Exasperated moans came from the others.

"It doesn't?" Madame repeated, voice dangerously soft. "It's got to have an ending, Weefers! Haven't you learned anything on this list?"

"You didn't teach me how to cure this writer's block I've got!" Weefers protested. "It's terrible! I haven't written a word in a week!"

Madame closed her eyes, struggling to hold onto her temper. "So just how far did you get?"

"Only as far as En going blind," she answered. "I never could come up with a good explanation as to how they did that. I'm no good at that technical stuff--I write romances!"

"Wait a minute," Len interrupted. "What kind of explanation did you give for the guys being able to come into our dimension? You managed to write that part."

"Explanation?" Weefers snorted. "What explanation? All I wrote was 'Micky builds a dimension-hopping thingie!' Apparently they don't need much in the way of details in other dimensions!"

"Now what?" asked Penny. "We can't just leave poor En hanging like this!"

"Maybe...." Len began, then shook her head. "Could it be that easy?" she asked herself.

"What?" Madame demanded. "Do you have an idea?"

"Well, there is one thing....but I'm not sure it'll work," Len admitted.

"Could it be any worse than this?" Madame asked. "What do we do?"

"Delete it," Lenora answered simply. "Maybe if we erase the story, it'll be like this whole thing never happened."

Madame shrugged her shoulders. "I can't see how it could do any harm. Do it, Len"

"Weefers, how many copies of that story do you have?" Lenora asked, moving toward the computer desk in the corner of the living room.

"Just one," Weefers answered faintly. "I save all my stories on disk, so I can write at work."

"Okay then, let's have it."

No answer.

"Weefers? The disk--where is it?"

"I don't know how to tell you this..." Weefers hesitated, biting her lip in agitation.

"You do know where it's at, don't you?" Madame looked at her expectantly.

"Oh, I know where it's at..." Weefers agreed, growing more uncomfortable by the second.

"So where is it?" Len repeated, not looking up from the computer keyboard.

Weefers looked at En, face stricken. Opening her mouth she managed to croak out a one-word answer.

"Hawaii."

A slightly hysterical giggle broke the quiet of the room. Weefers looked up to see Len, hand over her mouth as she struggled to keep her composure.

"Hawaii?" she said in astonishment. "What's it doing...racking up frequent flyer miles?"

"I told you, I keep my stories on floppies so I can take them to work," Weefers explained. "When I left the office on Friday, I put the disk into the pocket of my jacket..."

"And..." Madame prompted.

"And I loaned the jacket to my mother...who's on her way to Honolulu." Weefers looked at her watch. "As a matter of fact, her plane should be landing right about now."

"That's it!" cries Len. "Weefers, call your mother and have her delete the file for us!"

"No can do," Weefers replied. "You may think Peter's a Luddite, but Mom puts him to shame. She's still not quite convinced that the Internet isn't some government conspiracy to keep us blindly addicted to our keyboards! I'm not even sure she could find the power switch on a computer, let alone delete that file."

"Now what do we do?" En exclaimed. "I stay blind because your mother won't join the twentieth century?"

"Maybe not..." said Weefers, expression thoughtful. Running to her computer, she nudged Len out of the way, grabbing the keyboard.

"What are you doing?" Madame went to stand behind her, peering over Weefers' shoulder at the glowing screen.

Weefers proceeded to type as quickly as she could. "Maybe I can't delete the story, but I can finish it!"

"I thought you said you had writer's block?" Mary objected.

"I do," Weefers confirmed. "That's why you all are going to help me!" Opening up a new file, she sat back in her chair, flexing her fingers. "All right, I need ideas. Obviously I can't change anything up until the time the Monkees showed up and blinded En. Now, to figure out a way to convince them to give her sight back..."

"Think about it, Weefers," Madame coached. "This is your story..."

"And I should to have at least a vague idea of where it's going," Weefers finished for her.. "I know that Madame, but I've never been good at making my characters behave. How many times have I said they have minds of their own?"

"And how many times have I told you all that when that happens, just roll with the flow and keep writing?" Madame answered. "Now, your characters have just blinded a perfectly harmless fanfic writer," she stopped, grimacing. "Well, they blinded Enola, anyway. What could make them change their minds?"

Weefers thought about that for a long moment. Sudden inspiration struck, and she began to type again.

~*~

Twenty minutes later, the fanfic Monkees ventured back downstairs, in response to En's call. Coming to a halt in front of her, they waited expectantly. "Well," Mike said testily. "Have you made your decision?"

Enola merely smiled slightly. "Actually, guys, we've all come to a decision. In return for my sight, I agree to stop writing fanfic about you..."

"Groovy!" shouted Micky. "No more handicaps, good-by trauma..."

"But," En continued, pausing for emphasis. "All the other writers on the Long Title list are going to stop writing fanfic also. Sort of a...sympathy strike, if you will."

All four of them paled at that. "A-ALL of you?" Mike stuttered. "Even Madame? But she's addicted to writing!"

"Even me," Madame confirmed. "And you know what that means, don't you?" The Monkees looked confused for a moment, then gave a collective gasp of horror as her words sunk in. "You mean..." Mike whispered.

"That's right," Madame said sternly. "No more 'Shadows on the Ceiling," no more "Swimming Lessons," She paused, shooting a regretful look at resident Torkaholics Mary and Weefers. "And especially no more 'WALL!"

At that, Peter started to cry. Mike, looking close to tears himself, put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Now look what you've done!" he scolded Madame. "You made him cry. Did ya have to be so mean?"

Weefers giggled. elbowing Madame. "All that time with Isabel, and he still hasn't learned never to cross a short woman?"

"Apparently not." Madame sighed, looking at the now downcast Monkees. "Listen guys, can't we come to some sort of compromise? I really don't want to stop writing, and I know you four really don't want to stop...well, you know."

The quartet exchanged meaningful glances. "Do you think we should ask them, Mike?" Micky asked. The wool hat bobbed in assent.

"What?" Madame queried. "You have a suggestion?"

"Well," Micky began slowly. "Each of us has a request. If you agree to fulfill them, I think we could be persuaded to return your friend's sight and go back to our own dimension.

"What are they?" Len asked eagerly.

"Down Lenora!" En ordered her cyber daughter. "I know that tone of voice. They're talking about fanfic!"

"Oh." Len subsided in disappointment. "Spoilsport."

Madame looked at the ceiling, closing her eyes. Muttering under her breath, she sighed deeply. "What are your requests?"

Peter began. "I want more stories where I'm the smart one. I don't like playing a dummy. Um...and can I have a pet?" he asked, turning on the dimples. "What do you want, Micky?"

Micky thought for a few seconds. "Could somebody write the story about how we got the Monkeemobile? Not that I don't like it, but I've always wondered how four penniless musicians got their paws on a souped-up GTO."

Mike took his turn. Shaking his head, he looked down upon all the listers. "I only want one thing," he stated. "I'm flattered as all get out, mind you, but do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to have women checking you out for 'tummy fuzz?'"

Madame's eyebrows shot up. "Pick something else," she said flatly. "No way in hell I'm giving up my tummy fuzz!"

"I kinda figured that," Mike chuckled. "I said I was embarrassed, not that I wanted you to stop! No, what I really want is to have more comedy stories--ones that don't involve childhood diseases!" His dark eyes focused on Weefers, who would have fallen over if she hadn't been sitting down. "I do have a sense of humor, ya know--why do I always have to be taciturn and close-mouthed?"

"That's more like it," Madame agreed, turning to the remaining Monkee. "What do you want, Davy?"

The englishman looked at her strangely. "You mean you don't know?"

"Not a clue."

"I want a girl!" Davy fairly shouted. "All day long, I watch those three, chicks all over them! And what do I get? Nothing! Zilch! Nada! I thought I was supposed to be the heartthrob of this group--how come they get all the action?"

"Point taken." Madame ignored the muffled laughter from the group. "And if we agree to this, En gets her sight back, and gets to keep writing?" Four heads nodded in agreement. Madame turned to her disciples. "Well, group. Think we can take care of those requests?"

Cheers filled the living room, and Madame laughed. "I think you have a deal. Now can you please return En's sight?"

The Monkees moved not a finger, but En suddenly swayed a little. "I can see!" she cried happily, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the light. "Thank you!"

"How did you do that?" Len said in frustration. "Weefers, I've got to talk to you about these technical details!"

"I think it's time we headed back to our own dimension," Mike said, satisfied look on his face. "I'm gonna trust you guys to keep your end of the deal," he warned sternly.

"Oh we will!" the LT listers chorused sweetly, fingers crossed behind more than a few backs.

"See that you do," Mike returned. "Micky, you got that gizmo?"

Micky reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, strangely familiar device. "Right here, Mike. Ready?" Mike nodded, and Micky touched a small button on the object's shiny case. In an instant, all four were gone, only a slight shimmer in the air to mark where they had stood.

"Boy, am I glad that's over!" Weefers saved the file, making sure this one went onto a zip disk for safekeeping. "I'm so sorry, everyone. I promise I'll never write a story like that again--from now on, I'm sticking with romance!"

More laughter. I took several moments for them to notice that Madame had not joined them in the merriment. In fact, she looked like she was in shock.

"Madame?" Mary asked in alarm. "What's the matter?"

"I have a bad feeling that we haven't seen the last of them," she replied, eyes huge.

"What are you talking about,?" Len demanded. "Weefers finished the story, and they've gone back to their own dimension. "They can't get back here unless one of us writes about it. Can they?"

Madame looked up, guilty. "I think they can!"

"What are you talking about?" Weefers asked in confusion. "I told you, I'm never writing a story like that again!"

"You won't have too," Madame replied, biting her lower lip. "Did any of you get a good look at that device of Micky's?" No one had. "I don't know how to tell you this..."

"What, Madame?" demanded Len. "What makes you think they can come back?"

"Weefers did't bring them here with her story."

"Of course she did!" Len protested. "We had it all figured out! She wrote the story, and they acted it out."

"I'm not saying that they don't live out our stories," Madame countered. "I'm just saying that it wasn't Weefers who brought them here--at least, not on her own."

"For the third time, what on earth are you talking about?" Penny asked. "And how could they come back if we don't write about it?"

"Because," Madame began, looking apologetically at her friends. "That gadget Micky used..." She paused. worrying the carpet with the toe of her shoe. Gathering her courage, she went on. "It was the one I wrote about in my leap story... and they still have it."