She wrote thousands of words.
Unlike most other times, it took very little effort. They flowed as quickly as her willowy fingers could scroll them over the page. She didn’t look them up or second-guess, she simply wrote and wrote and as she did, her heart pounded with euphoric anticipation.
Within minutes the story had taken on a life and turned into something she alone never could have conjured. The characters were vivid smudges of color on the chalky paper, each one weird, wild and wonderful. Much to her delight, they twittered, twirled and twinkled in front of her very eyes.
Descriptions were riveting and the plot, engrossing. All awakened at her fingertips and she relinquished control of what was happening.
They took over. Grew more animated, more tangible. She felt a draft as they hurried past, saw the pores on their skin, smelled the booze on their breath, heard them swallow as they ate the food from their plates.
She reached out, wanting to touch what seemed real, but her hand was slapped away. A feeling hard to describe, covered her like sheets of ice. Her skin erupted in fear and her heart, still pounding, skipped a beat, maybe two, in shock.
As she stared in horror, the longhand scroll she’d so relished penning, rose up off the page united, and slowly, deliberately made its way around her thin, long neck.
“This is our story.” she heard the robust rope seethe. “We’re not going to do as you say.
The linked words were frayed at the edges and as they tightened, the delicate skin on her neck began to burn with the friction.
“Your words are ours now. Your ours now.”
As she lay limp, breathless and a minute from lifeless, her once enraptured heart finally stopped beating as she herself, became a part of the story that was once hers. Copyright © 2013 The Wrought Writer