Reader, Writer
By: Ethan West
A cold hand grips the page as warm blue eyes scan its contents. Like a dream, like a nightmare the world of the writer explodes into his mind. He can see the images as apparent as the bright ferocity of the sun that allowed his imagination to soar.
He ran his hand along the page. He felt the chill from the page where the cold tip of a pen had bled equally cold ink into the paper.
But as he read on he began to realize what the author was trying to say. The worlds that once flew so effortlessly from the page had begun to slow. But this slowing allowed him to see the writer's pain with surreal detail.
He saw everything from the writer's greatest joy to his most horrible misery. This was more than he wanted to see. But he couldn't look away. Warm tears cascaded from his eyes as he read on. Smudging the page and smearing the ink. The cold ink originally brought to life by the writer and long sense had grown cold was brought back to life his tears. He was at the mercy of the writer's every word.
He felt naked, his very soul exposed to that of the writer's. In this whirlwind of emotions he was rejuvenated. He was brought in the end to a final feeling of bliss at this new found life the book had imposed upon him.
He closed the book with a soft thud, lifting himself off of the armchair in the now dark sitting room. But even though the book was closed the aura of it still penetrated the still silence of the room. He smiled softly as he placed it on the shelf. Letting out a sigh of content he allowed his tired legs to escort him to bed...
The book closed with a snap. My mind now weary I placed the pen down on the oak desk, my book completed. I looked around the desk for anything I'd forgotten and, seeing nothing, headed for bed. Perhaps, in the future, someone would be affected by what I had written tonight... someday...