| Saturday, June 30, 2007 |
| Enter Sara |
Sara leaned back and sighed, running her hands through her hair, glaring at the green pencil in her hand, glowing softly like the words she had just written. How she would like to push those words away, crumple the paper, make that world collapse though she knew it would be murder! What did she care? They were all her creatures anyway! Who would care about an abandoned story? Who would've read it?
She looked up, glaring at the author somewhere that could be writing her story. The indignity of it! Her, Sara, be commanded by some - by some whelp!
She couldn't help but smirk. That was probably what the author thought.
She pulled a fresh piece of paper toward her, and in the darkness of her tiny, windowless room, she began to write.
The author would never know what hit him...
...Unfortunately for her, however, the author was not by any means a him. |
posted by CosimaCat @ 5:20 PM   |
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| A blog made up of short stories that can be read in any order. Rather like the Fiction in the New Yorker. Me vaugely gesticulating in order to make a point that doesn't seem to be there. |
| About Me |
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Name: CosimaCat
Home: Bloggerland, My World, Mexico
About Me: How do I know? You tell me. I'm a cat by any other name. I'm sure I was supposed to be a cat, really. There was a cosmic screwup. Heads will roll.
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