Imagine.
You are six years old. Your sister is four years older than you. She comes into the room, shouting to you about an 'amazing idea' she's had. You're young. You don't know that really: she's an idiot. It takes you another few years to figure that one out, anyway.
She explains how plastic bags can be used to slide around if you put them on your feet. You agree, and you think it is one of the most revolutionary ideas you've ever heard. It's something you'll remember for the rest of your life. You start to get excited. You are six years old.
Your mum keeps a drawer in a small utility room, filled with bags from Safeways and some more e
Character's Plea to a Lazy Writer by Asterlia, literature
Literature
Character's Plea to a Lazy Writer
“Don’t leave me. Please,” he begged.
I sighed. “I have to. I don’t even know what I’m doing…”
“No one does, that’s the point! It’s a learning experience, and honey, you’re losing.”
“I’ve barely even done anything!”
“And that’s the problem. You can’t give up now! If you do, I’ll….”
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll ruin my life.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m serious. Without you, I’m nothing.”
“You’ll be fine, Luke.”
“No, I won’
Please, I need your help. We're both in danger.
Do you see that corpse in the corner? The one with fluffy red hair? That's the author of this story, and she's dead. If you don't want the same thing to happen to you or me, you need to do everything I say.
Okay?
Okay. First, turn off the volume on your device. The monster's still here, and it will attack if it hears you. Work quietly now...
Good.
We don't have words to waste, so I'll sum this up quick:
I'm the protagonist. You can call me Proto.
The writer invented a creature whose harpoon-like limbs could go through anything. While she was thinking of a way for me to beat it, one claw p
The people of this town were just waiting to die. That was Maggie’s favourite thing about it, there was always business. Her husband used to go out at night and dig up someone who wouldn’t be missed. He’d have the body on the table in the basement before midnight. Maggie would strip the corpse of its clothing and its valuables. The clothes would be washed and resold, the valuables pawned off or kept depending on her mood.
Her husband would clean the body up and just as the very first rays of light were creeping over the horizon, a man with a cart would come by and take them away. It was a good living. Maggie and her husband
She's that one girl you see with the pencil woven
between her skinny fingers
She's the one who sits in the corner
instead of the middle of the room
The one who's always last to speak
The one who's words are kept secret to everyone
but herself
Always the one who bites
her own tongue
She's the girl who's beautiful
but doesn't think the same way
She's the one who can't be convinced
of the talents she holds
The flare that ignites the lives of the people around her
but she can't feel the heat for herself
She is weighed down by the insecurities she slings
over her shoulders
She's unconvinced of her own style
her own special self
She'
I'm no poet and I know it
But your poems affect me and I wanted to show it
So I wanted to leave you something to remember me by
Even if my words carry the impact of a fly
That they live in your mind for three days and then die
I wanted to be more than a false impression
To be one of those memorable moments you mention
Those are the words I wished I said
As I laid my head down for bed
So I inked them down before they fled
Now as I drift off to sleep my thoughts I shed
To dream pleasantly instead