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Description
Balls of paper littered the carpeted floor of her room, the concentration greatest closest to the desk. Lines of text adorned each side of all the papers, lines meticulously crossing out each word weaving over and through each crease. The mechanical pencil clattered noisily and rolled to the edge of the desk like a threat which she resolutely ignored. Staring at the partially erased words covering half of the sheet in front of her, hands framing either side of it, she couldn't choose between crumpling it in hatred and destroying it with tears. The hastily scrawled words disgusted and disappointed her. She felt guilty at her attempts to remove the evidence. Snorting, she pushed her chair back and turned, unhappy with herself. Then she saw as line of people standing in her room.
The Author almost wept at the sight of the characters she kept closest to her heart; they looked just as she imagined they would but better! The guilt returned and she wanted to cry for different reasons. To hold back her tears, she focused on the Girl who stood in front of, apart from, the line of familiar, coveted characters. The Girl's appearance changed at the slightest lapse of attention. "How long have you been there?" the Author asked.

"We've always been here," the Girl said in a voice as dynamic as her countenance.

"Why are you revealing yourself now?" the Author asked.

"Oh. Well, we would like stories," said the Girl as if she pointed out the obvious. The Author scoffed.

"You and me both. However, I can't give you a story. I have none left; I'm empty. The well has dried up. If you want a story, go find one. Throw away the written page like the many I have! I'm human, you know, not just some tool. Give me a break already!" she angrily told the Girl whose eyes widened in response.

"Is that what you think of us?" balked the Girl. "You misunderstand. I said I wanted a story, not a book; a door, not a window."

"What do you mean?" asked the Author.

"You have forgotten the difference," frowned the Girl. "That's why we are here; we are not real. We are merely ideas. If we threw away the written page, where would that leave us? Nowhere. When given a story, you open up a world for us that continues far beyond what any book or series of books could hope to portray. All we need is for you need to listen," the girl said, her voice slowly sounding more and more like the Author's. The Girl blurred and disappeared in the Writer's vision as tears swelled in her eyes. The swiftness of her turn caused a salty drop to fall onto her page. As it soaked in, words bloom.

"I won't forget again," she said whispered as her pencil flinally glided across the page.

Description
Balls of paper littered the carpeted floor of her room, the concentration greatest closest to the desk. Lines of text adorned each side of all the papers, lines meticulously crossing out each word weaving over and through each crease. The mechanical pencil clattered noisily and rolled to the edge of the desk like a threat which she resolutely ignored. Staring at the partially erased words covering half of the sheet in front of her, hands framing either side of it, she couldn't choose between crumpling it in hatred and destroying it with tears. The hastily scrawled words disgusted and disappointed her. She felt guilty at her attempts to remove the evidence. Snorting, she pushed her chair back and turned, unhappy with herself. Then she saw as line of people standing in her room.
The Author almost wept at the sight of the characters she kept closest to her heart; they looked just as she imagined they would but better! The guilt returned and she wanted to cry for different reasons. To hold back her tears, she focused on the Girl who stood in front of, apart from, the line of familiar, coveted characters. The Girl's appearance changed at the slightest lapse of attention. "How long have you been there?" the Author asked.

"We've always been here," the Girl said in a voice as dynamic as her countenance.

"Why are you revealing yourself now?" the Author asked.

"Oh. Well, we would like stories," said the Girl as if she pointed out the obvious. The Author scoffed.

"You and me both. However, I can't give you a story. I have none left; I'm empty. The well has dried up. If you want a story, go find one. Throw away the written page like the many I have! I'm human, you know, not just some tool. Give me a break already!" she angrily told the Girl whose eyes widened in response.

"Is that what you think of us?" balked the Girl. "You misunderstand. I said I wanted a story, not a book; a door, not a window."

"What do you mean?" asked the Author.

"You have forgotten the difference," frowned the Girl. "That's why we are here; we are not real. We are merely ideas. If we threw away the written page, where would that leave us? Nowhere. When given a story, you open up a world for us that continues far beyond what any book or series of books could hope to portray. All we need is for you need to listen," the girl said, her voice slowly sounding more and more like the Author's. The Girl blurred and disappeared in the Writer's vision as tears swelled in her eyes. The swiftness of her turn caused a salty drop to fall onto her page. As it soaked in, words bloom.

"I won't forget again," she said whispered as her pencil flinally glided across the page.