The Writer's Escape

3. The Desert

Even Serena could see that travelling a treacherous desert terrain in a skirt and high heels was a recipe for disaster, so she swallowed her pride and pulled on Berry's clothes. 

The clothing was just as she had described it in the story: long, flowy, tan-colored robes, pants, and headscarves. Leather belts to hold the whole thing together. Everything from the light color to the woven plant fiber material was intended to protect against the desert heat and sand. 

The clothes were designed to leave no part of the body uncovered, but on Serena's tall, narrow frame, Berry's clothes were both too short and too baggy. The pants barely stretched past her knees; the chunky leather boots squeezed her feet. The whole get-up made Serena feel like a cosplayer in bad need of a tailor.

Giving up on fixing her outfit, Serena splashed her face with cold water in the sink. 

This was all like a nightmare she couldn't wake up from. She wished she had never even heard of that cursed clinic. Yes, Serena loved exploring fantastical worlds of her imagination— from afar. She didn't have the fighting skills or magical abilities of her characters that would allow her to thrive in a place like this. A panicky feeling twisted her insides. No way she'd survive this particular storyworld. 

"Screw the relic," she muttered. She had to get out of here as soon as possible.
She pulled her manuscript out of her bag, along with a pen. Balancing the papers on her knee, she turned to the last page. The draft ended on the words,

"Berry slumbered in her tavern bedroom, sunlight from between the window's crimson curtains spilling over her dark hair." 

Looking around, Serena's eyes caught on the thin towel hanging from a metal hook, the color a grimy white. Tremors shook her hand as she started to write. 

"In the tavern washroom near Berry's bedroom, a bright red towel hung from a hook." 

As soon as she ended the sentence, shock coursed through her veins like electricity. The air rippled, and hair stood up on her arm. Serena let out a gasp.
When she looked up, the towel hanging from the hook was a brilliant red color. 

"Yes," she whispered, so relieved she could cry. 

With purpose now, she continued writing. 

"Unbeknownst to anyone, the coven had already located the evil sorceresses and defeated them. The End." 

She had no sooner capped the pen when an invisible force slugged her in the chest and threw her to the floor. Shock waves rippled through the air. An acrid smell hit her nostrils. 

Then the manuscript burst into flames. 

Serena shrieked. She grabbed the towel and smothered the fire, but it was too late. Right before her eyes, her work crumbled into ashes. 

Shaken, heart thudding in her chest, she picked herself up and waited for something else to happen. At least she had "finished" writing her story, even if she'd cheated. So why wasn't anything happening? The note had said that she'd return to her normal life if she brought the story to a close. 

She stood up, her breaths heavy. She caught her reflection in the mirror. Other than the fact that her hair was standing up as if she'd just been electrocuted, nothing had changed. She was still in the same dingy washroom. Still stuck in her novel, except now without the manuscript. 

"No, no, no . . ." 

It hit her then. She was really trapped here, with only seven short days before this change was permanent. 

This was crazy. What would Magpie say? Serena slid to the floor and buried her face in her hands, stifling a half-hysterical laugh. Magpie couldn't have known about this— no way she would have let Serena venture into a fantasy world alone. She would have insisted to come along.