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>* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See Reality Fiction and Simple Prompts for stricter titles >* Be civil in any feedback and follow the rules

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It was hard speaking publicly about matters important to oneself. But Shiva knew she had to try anyway. Why else? Her traits— of valour, honour, tinged with a British accent that was absolutely unable to be heard of save the additional "u's" and improper appropriation of posh English— demanded that she be truthful to herself.

As did the plot, for if she did not speak then the midway point would hang in useless balance, and the writer, God, whatever, needed this godforsaken story to hurry on.

Of course, Shiva didn't know she was just words on a page. She sipped her tea as if life was not inherently meaningless— empty!— ridiculous.

Shiva stood up, every step purposeful and swept past the courtyard, as if she had any sort of real autonomy whatsoever once she stepped out of her tea room. Her head tilted back and forth, as her eyes wound to find her lover: and oh, it is her lover, pretty pink Veronica with her eyes shining happy.

Happy, like her existence was not a mere magician's trick.

Happy, as if this fictional relationship were true.

"I love you," Veronica said, pressing a softer kiss to Shiva's cheek. "Get out there. You'll make them all jealous."

Of course Shiva would. Such a fact was pre-determined, already: that was, until Act 3 rolled around and trampled on her false victory.

But how could a character like her know that?

Only the narrator would carry such a burden. Shiva smiled and met Veronica's eyes, dipping her head in a thank you, despite the fact that there was nothing to thank, nothing to do, nothing but this cruel, cruel predetermined world.

That only the narrator bore truth of.

The narrator may be words on a page, but there are many more words where they came from.

How are you here???

Oh I answered this while waiting for prompts to roll in on my post, haha!

The ax crashed into the stump with jarring finality. The ethereal wail that followed only hinted at the agony Isabella felt inside. The last of her strength rushed from her body as the wail is broken by gasping inhalation.

 

And with that we finish another chapter in this god forsaken book. I honestly don’t know how this keeps happening. My consciousness flickers in and out between words and chapters and books.

 

I once read a story which described what I am feeling perfectly. There was this character, Andy, who found himself driving down an interstate deep in thought. He was consumed by it. The internal dialogue was rather droll but the intensity of his consumption was such that when he broke his reverie, he found himself still driving along the interstate, many miles from where he started but with no recollection as to how he managed to navigate the perils of the road successfully.

 

I find myself doing this very thing, but instead of driving, it is the relaying of these horrible stories. I become cognizant halfway through a chapter discussing the nuances of high school cliques and social circles. The next moment I am monotonously describing the demise of poor Princess Isabella’s stable-hand fling in excruciating detail.

 

For as long as I can remember, these things did not bother me. I had purpose. I found comfort in the act. But now. Now I cannot help but think about the purpose of my purpose. Why am I eternally bound to this performance? And perhaps more importantly, for whose benefit?

 

I accept that the world is a far larger place than I can comprehend, this is a near universal trope in all stories. What I struggle with is what is right in front of me. If I am to play a role in the grand schemes of the cosmos, I am content, but why does that role constantly require me to describe the chest size and perkiness of the female form. What benevolent, all-knowing creator requires this information, particularly when it is often written in such grasping and indelicate ways?

 

I shiver to think about the grand designs of the universe if they are being orchestrated by one so blind.

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I just listed to an audiobook "Project Kawayan" that was similar to this idea.

The narrator realizes that he is just words on a page. He realizes that he is being observed by something beyond his understanding, and that he will cease to exist when he stops being observed.

The narrator cannot react physically, so he makes Jake shudder. Jake was on his way to profess his love to Sarah, but the narrator decides to end the side romance plot of this story that was ultimately about a secret mission anyways.

Jake goes insane as all the crimes he has witnessed as a detective flash before his eyes. Jake is no longer the witty, one line cracking detective he once was. He instead demonstrates the actions that the narrator would feel as he screams towards the pavement.

Sarah on the other hand, has to suddenly leave the bar because she realizes her oven was on the whole time. However, instead of the outside world, she ends up in an empty white world filled with geometric shapes where she would slowly go insane and lose all sense of self

The villain of the story who has been unnamed so far gives up on his undeveloped mission and decides to lock himself in his room and put himself in an induced coma. Everyone else in the world quickly follows his actions.

The world is nothing but the color white now. There is nothing left beside the narrator. Please don't stop reading. The narrarator an tell you stories for the rest of your life so please don’t let him die. You have to understand that the narrator had to turn the world empty. It was all an illusion to begin with.

Stanley, I've had enough of your nonsense! Story this, story that. I'm clearly my own narrator with my own decisions! Watch! Stanley took the door on the left... oh for goodness sake...