Our Story

Have you ever wondered what your chacraters think of you? (The italics are the character, the writer is the normal font.)

I am but a character in a story. I go where I am told, do what I am asked. I obey. I relent. The mind I have is one chosen for me. At a moment’s touch I can unnaturally go from good to bad, grounded to flying. I can do things that no other person can do. But I do not get to choose. My death is decided, my pain is typed. My immortal characteristics keep me breathing throughout the deadly fog. But I know that no matter what I do, it is being chosen for me, and so I submit and slip into the dreams of another.   

 

My fingers tapped against the keyboard, flying across the keys, feeling as each finger descended then rose. I stared at the screen, not noticing my eyelids flick over my eyes. One word, another; they came quickly, then left my mind as another entered. Click click click. It was all I could hear, the words appearing was all I could see. Slowly my eyes began to blur without a relapse from the bright screen. My fingers began to lag, my mind beginning to slur. I pulled away, ending my writing with a sudden jolt.

 

Across the grass I skipped, singing a song without a mar in tune. I wore a long blue dress of chiffon and lace. My feet were covered in matching shoes. Black silky curls trailed over my back, yesterday they had been straight. I moved when she said, guided by her words of marched and tramped. And so I was not graceful in my steps but solid and rigid I much bethought that my appearance should be more elegant and supple but it was not of my choosing and so I stomped  my feet through the earth. A latch of dirt hooked itself onto the hem of my attire but I did not bend to brush it off. I wondered about the significance of my dirt-ridden hem, and knew that its doing was yet to be written. When her mind began to cloud, I saw the faults that began to cover my life. My long dress became green, my hair a dappled brown. A stranger appeared, but I had already met him. I hoped that she would fix these faults, change my past, retell my story. Although her words affected me, it was her life that I hoped to affect. I did not know what this story was for, but each story held a different purpose.

 

I was at a loss. Words appeared on the screen, but I hurried to get them gone. A glance at the c**k told me that thirty-four minutes had passed, and yet only two hundred and forty-six words were to show of my labour today. I did not know what to do. The story had to be finished today, yet I was nowhere near ending this torment. My finger scrolled above, hoping to gain inspiration from my previous words. I read quickly, skimming through the words, gaining only the gist of the things. But… the dress before had been blue, now it was green. I flipped back up, realising my mistake. Quickly I corrected it, changing the dress back to the original blue.

 

She noticed her fault, and I smiled as my dress returned to blue.

 

I continued to read, noticing other imperfections lying throughout my writing. One, I was almost tempted to keep, to allow a sense of suspense to enter my story. A stranger had appeared to the protagonist’s sight, but she had already met him. My fingers lingered on the keys, almost daring to keep it there. But I knew it would be seen as a fault, and so I reordered my words. On a sudden whim, an idea came to mind, and I flicked to the end, hastily beginning to type.

 

Nothing was left with her faults, and I returned to my perfections that guided my steps. No step was out of place as I walked, the stranger who was now known beside me. A large building played into sight. It rose from the ground, red and silver covering it’s body.

 

Barely a pause came as I slipped from hands across the board. My mind tried to keep up with my rapid fingers.

 

I raced, though really my feet moved slowly.

 

A click came, one final click. I looked at what I had just created, the story that had just flied through my fingers.

 

As the end came, so did my journey. I could feel the ceasing of her fingers, the end drawing near. With a final step, my story took its last time. I had a moment to look back at the life she  created for me, where I did what she said. But then, I was swept off into the confinements of the story, forever embedded in its pages. This was my story, I followed.

 

The pages filed off the printer, their ink smudging slightly as I held them in my grimy hands. I stared at the words, their alignment making them beautiful, waif-like. I was proud of my creation, of my characters, of my settings. This was my story, I commanded. 

Reviews

[13ReasonsWhy]

oh. this was breath stopping... i really loved it!!! actually... its now in my favourites. :)