I take a deep sigh after hours of putting the finishing touches on my book. It was the fourth in the series but I still couldn't get used to the process. As I walk through the nearest park to my house I wonder why. “Why must it have to work like this? Why can't I just write while sober?”
As I contemplate that fact and find solace in a bench I only want to scream at the top of my lungs. Not like I could. This is a public space, anyone would hear me and I would probably get reported. As I rest my face deep into my hands about to get up, I feel a hand rest on my shoulder.
“GAH!” up my face went as I jolt from my previous position. I did not know the strange man beside me. “You alright sir?” He calmly asked me. Whoever this man was I could tell something was truly off about his presence. Maybe it was his voice or his build. But something was different. “Sir?” The man questioned, bringing me back from my thoughts. “Ah- Yes I am fine. Are you?” Maybe if I attempt to make the conversation awkward I can avoid something sinister. The man paused and gazed upon the stars and the street light overhead, “I am searching for a man,” he looks at me with this glint in his eye “He’s a simple man. An author.” I look into his silver blue eyes. A small part of me hopes he isn't talking about me. “I have been watching his work since his first draft, you know? But he doesn't know the power his words wield.” This knot in my stomach begins to form with his words. “Have you seen him during your journey?” He asks, finalizing his turn at the conversation.
“What does he look like?” My voice quivers a bit. The man adjusts his suit, not that unusual of attire for the area nearby but still a bit off for the hour. “It matters not what he looks like-” the stranger quipts cryptically, “Have you seen him?” He stresses. I have a feeling he is talking about me so I try to scoot away to the edge of the bench. His presence feels even more overwhelming once I have moved. “And-” I hiccup “So what if I have Mr?” My poor attempt at changing the conversation. “Well I need to tell him to stop his antics.” The man seems more irritated at my antics than anything. I think he knows I know. “Why are you watching me sir.” I say plainly. He clearly knows who I am. “You have unknowingly tampered with the fabric of that of which you have no understanding. You must stop.” Fear runs across my face “Stop what?” Despite my question I have a solid guess. Sternly the man stares into my eyes “Writing.” Knew it. I called it. Draft and author gave it away. “Writing.” I repeat like a macaw, a bit impressed I guessed right and confused by why writing. “You write while under the influence, correct?” Yeah. I do. Do I have to tell him? “Sure. So? Many great authors have.” He looks into his hand and points it at me. “And yet very few have met me. You, like Shakespeare, have touched that which your mortal fingers should have never been able to grasp. Thus I am here to offer you a choice. Continue writing the way you have and you may find yourself interacting with a world we have hidden for longer than humans have even had written language. Or, quit and I shall give you what you have desired since the accident.”
Oh that's it! No. No one pressures me like that. “I don't know who you are. Whether god, beast, mythological or made by man no one dares to try to use that against me. Not even my family.” I begin to stomp off, middle finger high in the air. Only for a tentacle-like appendage to wrap around my arm. As I turn back there is no longer a man where he once was. There is darkness, absence, and long tentacles of said absence reaching out towards every fragment of light in the space. A single mouth sits center of the void and with the faintest breath it challenges me “Make. Your. Choice.” My choice? MY CHOICE? What kind of Cthulhu nonsense have I found myself walking into. “My choice?!” confusion is all my mind is full of. “I WANT TO WRITE” I said it. “I want to write that is why I keep getting high to do it. If that's the only way I can write then that's how I will do it. I love writing, I love it all. But I can't do it sober no matter how much I-” suddenly a tentacle wraps around and covers my mouth. In a low growling voice the absence snarls “Then I heed you, dear William; be prepared. The quill is sharper than the blade but the words written hold more power when blood has been spilled.” And with those words I look up. Still on the bench where I once was, now with the light overhead broken.
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