Dream Writer

  His hand rested gently on her shoulder as he came to stand behind her.  As she turned to face him she was once again blown away by the affection in his eyes.  Deep green, they held just a hint of mischief, a never-endin source of joy and headaches in her life.  His face drew closer to hers, her pulse quickened and she could barely breathe.  The moment their lips met the world changed.  Long mechanical ropes snaked around him and forcibly yanked him away from her.  The moan died on her lips, strangled by a scream of terror.

  A figure clothed in a red robe appeared, or had always been there.  Eternity seemed to radiate outward from him.  Next to him, Savan, struggling in chains, seemed pale and temporal.  His voice filled her, and yet, his lips did not move.

  "Foolsssss, meddling in a story for which you are mere filler.  Puppets attempting to wrest control from their maker.  I shall simply, cut the strings."

  Laughter; callous, twisted, perverse, chased her as she fought for consciousness.  She had no desire to see how that story ended.

  "Come on kitty.  Its ok, I got us some dinner today.  That nice lady teacher couldn't finish her lunch."  The young boy should have been slightly pudgy.  His small face missed the softening touch of baby-fat too soon absent.  Trag, short for Tragic, sat on the bed and thought about his teacher.

  She seemed so sad today. she still had a smile for him though.  He wished it could all just go away, like in those stories she read to them sometimes.  Before he went to sleep at night he always imagined he was the brave hero who would ride to the rescue of the lady, always living happily ever after.  The lady always had long beautiful dark hair and would smile up at him whenever they met.

  The food was gone far too soon, his stomach still growled with hunger as he laid on his back, hands behind his head.  Last night the lady had been kidnapped by his evil step-father and it was time to save her.

  He preferred to lay on top of his blankets rather than hunder.  A few more thread-bare layers between him and the wood plank that wa shis bed wouldn't hurt.  The small room barely held his bed.  Dirty walls had once been covered in pages and pages of writing.  His step-father had seen it and hauled him to the Magitrix immediately, insisting he be cleansed from the insanity. 

  For two weeks Trag had been held in the City.  One of the Attendants had visited him every day.  At first he had been harsh, demanding to know who the brave man was.

  The Attended came day after day, his probing questions and razor claws dug for the truth.  His cruel manner eventually softened.  After two weeks of explaining that it was a made up story he was allowed to return home.  His step-father never spoke a word to him, but when he had gone to bed that night the story was gone, the walls were dirty and uninteresting.

  Tragic understood, no more writing.  He just wished he understood why.

The End

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