Young Writers Society

Every time I check over this story, I continue to read it in a British accent. xD It sounds awesome. Hahaha

Tess

Sarah is a very interesting creator to observe. She hates writing any first draft on the computer-- she says the ideas somehow stop flowing when she's in front of a screen. I think I like that about her; I mean, she created me with her own hand. I am written in her own handwriting. It's a personal touch; I feel more connected to her because of it.

She often sits on the floor, in a tree, or on the roof to write. And she almost always writes in pencil. She'll sit in her position, usually one that would be awkward for anyone else, with her pencil hovering over the page, her jaw set, and she'll hum slightly until she gets an idea. The she writes, and she seems to never have to think about it. It's as though I am perfect in her mind, and she dare not pause lest she lose the image.

It's nice to be thought of as perfect. I think she often writes her characters as she wished she was. Or maybe she'll form someone who has all of the traits she wished she didn't; it's like she tries to write her failures out of her. I wish, for her sake, that it would work.

Sometimes she writes poetry; I've never been included in a poem yet. I hope she will use me, but it's unlikely. She only seems to write about things in her poems, never people.

I wish I could create someone myself.

My name is Sir Halifax, and I am a knight. My home is in Redbarrow Fief, although I’m hardly ever at home. I spend my days riding throughout the kingdom, carrying out quests for the king. It is my duty to keep the land safe from its many threats, such as cruel people and fearsome beasts. In exchange for my service, I am given much wealth and honor.
It is a rewarding job, but sometimes I get tired of it. Sometimes I wish I could do something else for a change. But sadly, the choice isn’t mine. No man in the kingdom is allowed to choose his work, because such a decision belongs only to the master of fate—to the Writer. And our Writer is an unfeeling man, so I think I will be stuck as a knight for all my time.
Often, I feel like a marionette, bowing and dancing to the tune of the Writer’s every whim. I would like to pick the tune myself sometimes, because the Writer just doesn’t understand me. It’s a rather oppressed existence, not being able to choose your fate. It’s not that I resent the Writer for it—in fact, I appreciate him greatly, for he gave me life. It’s just that it’s a sad and confusing feeling to not be in control of my own actions.
And the life the Writer gave me just doesn’t seem enough. In my work, I often do good deeds—I save distressed damsels, and I rid the world of bad men. But it’s always the same thing over again, and everything I do feels rather unoriginal. I think I would be much better off doing something else. I’ve always wanted to be a street performer, or a zookeeper, or a quantum physicist. Anything but a knight.
Sometimes it gets so hard, being a knight. When it’s a hot day, and I’m wearing my armor, I feel like I’m burning up. My helmet is too tight, and when I wear it for too long, it gives me a headache. My horse is too slow; my travels take twice as long as they should. And my sword is so heavy—on days when I’m feeling down, it’s just too much to lift. I wish I could really do something for the world. I wish I could do something that I enjoy.
Luckily, I have found a way to escape from all the troubles of my life. I write stories. And when I do, it’s so freeing to live in a world of my own. It’s such a thrill to control the lives of my characters as my Writer controls me.
The trouble is, I don’t have much time to write. Whenever the Writer picks up his pen, I’m forced to put away mine. While he is writing me, I have no choice but to follow his every command.
The Writer is at his desk now, scratching violently on a sheet of paper. He has sent me to a wide open field; I am riding to the outskirts of the kingdom, where there is a criminal to catch. The grass in the field is short, and it’s an unhealthy yellow color—no, that’s odd, it just changed. It is a lively green color now, and it brushes against my knees.
The Writer stands up; he’s leaving now. I suppose he has more important things to do than narrate my existence. I suppose I’ll just stay here for a while and wait for him to come back. The Writer would be very displeased if I were to go somewhere without his knowing.
I work on my latest story, and when the Writer returns to his desk, I hide my papers hastily in my bag. I resume riding; after a few hours pass, I am at the top of a snowy mountain; a few more pass, and I am in the middle of a dark forest.
I have been wandering among the trees for a while now—I lost the trail a long way back. It’s quite hard to see, and strange noises keep coming from behind the trees. It’s a bit frightening, really. I’m actually becoming rather terrified. I wish I could find my way out of—what is that!?
A great beast has reared up before me—it’s an enormous bear-shaped thing, standing on its hind legs. I swipe at it with my sword, praying to the Writer to keep me safe. The Writer flicks his pen, and the beast tears his claws along my side. I am hurt; I am bleeding! With a flourish, the Writer sends my sword into the beast’s belly. The beast moans as it falls, and I ride quickly away.
To my surprise and relief, I escape the dark forest alive, and I find myself in civilized country. I’m glad to find myself well after such a close encounter, but it unsettles me. Being a knight is dangerous enough, but it’s much worse when your Writer has a thing for bloody violence and gory deaths. I fear one day he’ll sit down at his desk and decide to just do away with me.
I ride through the gates of a small village. I turn onto the main street and—wait. Something is happening. Something is very wrong.
The Writer stands up quickly from his desk. Someone has broken down his door and entered his office. A dark man stands above the Writer with a sword in his hands. The Writer grabs a pen from his desk and stabs wildly at the dark man. The dark man swings his sword. The Writer falls to his knees, his head on the ground beside him.
For a long time, I do not move. I cannot comprehend what I have seen. The Writer’s desk is empty. The Writer is dead. I have no Writer.
Slowly, reality thaws my frozen mind. I look around. I see the world, and the world is open. The world is free.
I slide down from my horse. My helmet and sword clatter loudly when I throw them to the ground. I pull off my armor, and I feel an afternoon breeze. I turn around and leave the village. I begin to run.
I am going home. I am not a knight anymore; a pen is in my hand.
I am my own Writer now.