Sta.sh
Throwing down her pen in frustration, the Author cried, 'What is it you want?!'
The boy standing in the doorway wrung his hands in embarrassment, 'I want a story...'
Exhaling deeply, she studied him. Her gaze ran over his soft hair and the slight iridescence of his skin. She noted the odd way that the boy appeared to shimmer like a haze of heat. His eyes were deep and brown, and his lips played the tune of a nervous smile.
'I cannot give you a story,' She said brusquely, 'I am all out of stories! Look at me! I am hollow, I am gone, I am nothing! You want a story?' The Author paused whilst he nodded, 'Then go out and live! Breathe the air, god knows, I wish I had that sort of freedom. Draw pictures, play music, live your life! Drink the nacreous waters of freedom, break out of the words that chain your mind. I am a human, like you! I need time to myself too, and I cannot always be a source of your entertainment.'
Shaking his head, the boy said, 'No. I haven't come to hassle you into writing a book. I don't want that. I've come for something different. I need a story, for myself, and for my soul.'
'What... What do you mean?' asked the Author, taken aback by his words.
'Take my hand,' Said the boy softly, offering a hand out to her, 'Touch me.'
She did so, or, at the very least, she tried to. For - when she attempted to grasp the boy's fingers -her hand slipped right through his. As though he were a ghost.
'I am not real,' he shrugged, dismissing the shock on her face, 'But you know me. I am the brother who ran away from home when you were twelve. I am the father whom your mother divorced. I am your first kiss, and your last. I am the one who mugged you, and the one who comforted you. I am the boy who died, the one you loved. But I have no substance, that is why I come to you now. Give me a body of paper. Make me a paper ghost.'
A tear fell from her cheek, and hit the empty page of her notebook. As the paper soaked up the salty water, spidery ink-written words began to appear on the page. The Author was writing, she was a writer again.
'Of course,' she said, 'Of course I'll write you a story.'
But, when she looked up to thank him, the boy was gone.
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I don't know why. It's not often I write something and think, 'okay, it's not great, it's not my original intetention, but I like it anyway'
You can do writing as a job, you can become a professional writer.
It's what I'm hoping to do
YEs, I know, It's just so hard to get into D: Thats what Im scared of