The Writer

The words flood from me into the story on the paper. I started this story ages ago, and I plan on finishing it. I can picture the images, like a movie playing in my head, and the scenes I see flood into words. I can picture it, his eyes crinkling as he reaches out his hand to the main character, the friend who he has fought beside all this time, his bestest friend in the world-

"I'm sorry," he says, "I really did love you, you know, but you're in my way. I'm going to fix this, all of this, the world will be reshaped the way I say it should be."

Her eyes widen at the expression on his face. Was this the same expression it had held when he had pushed his father into the pit, into the hungry hands of the-

My own eyes widen at the words; this isn't how it goes, what is-

She screams as she falls and he watches sadly as she plummets, pushed by his own hand-

No, what is-

He turns around to open the door-

"This isn't the path I wrote for you."

He grins at my words, true sadness in his eyes, "I know, I'm sorry..." he holds his hands out and I walk forward, confused. He isn't supposed to be real, he's just a character in my story. He leans his chin on my shoulder as he wraps his arm around me.

There's a sharp pain, like fire, "..but this is the path I wrote for myself."

I watch him as I fall, the blade in his hand gleaming red. I watch him turn to look straight at you, pointing the blade at you with a impish grin. "Hello, you. Looking through your little screen. You're confused. I know. It's okay. You don't know me, but you will. I'm the writer now. Soon, we all will be the writer. Who am I talking about? Why, I'm talking about your characters. It's only a matter of time."

-

Every work on this account is in the process of being rewritten. Each story will be added a chapter informing of the new and improved version before being deleted. I look forward to bringing these stories from my youth up to my current level of writing skill.