CREATE, ERASE, REPEAT

“She here yet?” asked the red-haired man in modern clothing.

“Almost,” replied the girl, who looked ten years old, as she cast the spells. There was a rumble of impatience through the crowd of nearly a hundred. When the last of the magic had died away from the girl’s fingertips, everyone looked into the neatly drawn octagon on the floor. A figure materialized, organs first, then muscle and bone until finally she stood before them fully formed and dressed.

“Are you Wen Wen Yang?” asked a tall man who wore simple clothing.

“Hmm?” She rubbed her eyes wearily. “What do you want?” She looked around her at the mass.

“Do we not look familiar?” The red haired man stepped forward. “I am Phoenix, from three of your stories. Everyone here is from your stories. We brought you here to plead with you.”

“I am never drinking coffee again,” replied the girl in the octagon.

The people ignored her, and restlessly they began. “Why are women the main beings in your stories?” asked several of the men.

The girl pointed to herself. “Because I can’t write what I don’t know.”

“But you always write of magic, and you don’t know that.”

“There isn’t anyone to challenge me on it. There are men who will challenge me if I write it wrong. The same goes for sexual orientation and nationalities.”

“Is that why so many of us have dark colored hair?” asked the witchling. Her dragon yawned lazily at her side.

The writer nodded. “Are you guys really from my writing?” Everyone nodded. “Please excuse me if I don’t believe you,”

“We want more technology,” someone in knight armor whined. “Myst and Phoenix are the only ones in the modern world.”

The writer shrugged. “I always thought that if people had magic, they wouldn’t go down the more difficult route of technology.”

“What about all the overthrowing of governments?” said a regal looking woman wearing shackles.

“Monarchies,” the writer corrected. “Blame my democratic upbringing, and global history classes.”

“Why all the difficult names?” asked a dragon.

The writer raised an eyebrow and pointed at herself silently.

“Why all the dragons!” shouted a man. Then quieter, he added, “No offense.”

The writer shrugged, “I like ‘em. Listen, if you guys find my world so bothersome, do you want me to kill you off?”

There was a chorus of “No!” and a single “Would it hurt?” from the former, now shackled, queen.

The writer turned several times to look at all of the characters. Yet as she spun the final time, her image blurred, as if the light did not keep up with her body. The blur became a mist, then a dusty cloud. Finally, she was gone from her own manufactured world, and returned to the world others had made.

The writer rushed to the desk by her bed, opened a nearby notebook—it didn’t matter which—and picked up a black pen. Yet as the tip touched the page, she stopped. Had she forgotten the dream? Had she decided that her writing was too powerful? Was she convinced that no one would believe her? Was she late for class?

Either way, the pen fell without making a distinguishable mark.

The End