"The Death of Truemy"

Truemy was a very powerful witch. So powerful, in fact, that she could create beings with her creative writing power. One day, she was terribly fed up with all the characters in books and television, which were goody-two-shoes weaklings that never completely demolished their enemies. So she took it upon herself to make the perfect character.

Unfortunately, Truemy had not taken into account that anything she wrote down would eventually come true.

So she created an awesome swordfighter character, with the power to transform into a maniacal fiend who would murder even the closest of her friends. Her intention was to eventually have some honorable soul finish this lunatic off, but before she could reach that part of the book, she had to stop and forge a minor creation spell for a friend of hers.

She mixed the potion, lit her black candles, and chanted the words. In the meantime, her idiot friend called her at the most crucial instant of the spell. Truemy was jarred by her cell-phone ring, which was at the top-most setting.

She leaped up from the floor, which she sat on cross-legged.

As she did so, the potion flipped over and interacted with the book of her writings, although she didn't notice as she used a random t-shirt to clean up the mess, swearing profusely and loudly—something about a duck, which I won't repeat.

Later, when she'd gotten off the phone with her anxious and badly timed friend, finished the minor spell, and gone out to take the results to her friend, the book rattled on the floor.

Sparkling red-gold tendrils of light emanated from the book, and it opened.

The pure sparkles turned to a fly-infested smoke, and out of the book emerged even more smoke, swirling as if it were a dust devil or whirlwind.

Kicking the book aside, Truemy's miscreant solidified into a dark-haired young man with red eyes. He smiled to himself, flicked out his right hand to his side. A small swarm of flies scattered from his fingertips, and a sword appeared.

The sword was slick on its flat side, shiny and silver, but barbed like a saw on its edges, something that would tear organs from the body it plunged itself into.

He glanced around the room, sheathing the sword at his back. He started walking to the door, and his booted foot encountered candles and scattered them across the wooden faux tiles. He smirked to himself. Human magic… so simplistic, he thought, derisively.

He turned, looking at the floor. He was about to unsheathe his Disemboweler, as he called the sword, across the candles and other magical paraphernalia, when he noticed the book. It was leather bound and had a strange coat of arms emblazoned on the front cover. He left the Disemboweler sheathed and snatched up the book.

Flipping open the cover, he frowned, trying to decipher to the bad handwriting. This is worse than my twelve-year-old sister's… Almost just as the thought crossed his mind, he ran across a passage in the journal. It said…

He dropped the book, beginning to scowl for the first time since he'd come into being.

Lydia was petting "Gary," the minion creature that Truemy, her witch friend had made for her, when the strange man appeared in her room. She sat up; she was always lounging on her futon, with the air of some pampered lady or lord from the Heian period of Japan. She usually made the excuse to herself that her butt hurt when she tried to sit up properly.

But she wasn't going to greet this stranger—obviously another magic user—lying on her side negligently. That was just rude.

"Um," she said, astutely—as was her custom, "Who are you?"

"I smell her here," the strange, dark-haired man said. He was rather young, at a second glance—handsome, with strange, scarlet eyes. Lydia was already getting a crush.

The Familiar growled and ran off, under the extra cot, and out under the curtains that partitioned Lydia's room from the rest of the world. Traitor, she thought to herself, but she had other things to worry about.

She got up, with a little effort. She'd put on some weight, obviously from the sedentary lifestyle she led, over the years. Taking a breath, she asked, "Smell whom?"

The tall, dangerous-looking magic-user narrowed his eyes at her. She shivered. Maybe she should be looking for a way to get out of this situation, instead of being blunt and asking stupid questions.

"But she's not here now," he said.

He unsheathed a wicked looking sword from behind him. On sight of it, Lydia's breathing became more rapid and she started to feel light-headed. "Wh-Who are you?" she asked, stumbling backward into the wall. She felt the curtain behind her, but there was no way she was going to be able to get through the plastic window fast enough to get away from this maniac.

"My name is Straw. And this is my sword—Disemboweler." He brandished the sword, and Lydia began to feel the buzzing in her ears that had once presaged temporarily blacking out while giving plasma.

Too bad she was wide awake, and staring, when the sword slashed across her face, tearing her eyes from her skull. At least it didn't take her long to die, after the same sword severed, in a rough, uneven slice, her head from her shoulders.

Truemy was getting ready for bed, when she realized her journal was missing.

"Looking for this?" a stranger said from behind her.

She whipped around, but didn't un-crouch from the bed. "What the fuck?" she demanded.

"Straw," he said, the stranger with the red eyes, "And this is your magical tome," he said, holding her journal aloft.

She scowled at him. "Were you reading that?"

"Shouldn't you be worried about other things?" he questioned. "For instance—" He casually flung the journal aside, "Your baby boy's playmate….?"

He removed his sword from its sheath at his back, and she started to connect the dots that her shock had temporarily scatted. Straw… OMFG… She'd created this character. From his brown head, to his dark trench coat, down to his booted feet.

And that sword… She swore again, this time under her breath.

"Nooow you're getting the picture," Straw said, and paced toward her.

He pointed at her, almost casually, with the tip of his barbed sword. She fell back against the bed, scrambling backward and screaming. Oh, shit, oh, God-! She needed to summon one of her other creatures to battle him, or he was going to slaughter her in the worst way possible. She knew; she'd created the damn man.

"Nihao, come to me!" She yelled, tripping over her syllables.

The green dragon still appeared, crouched on the bed between her and Straw, spitting fire and roaring softly. It was about the size of a colt with gold scales down the center of its back where bright red spikes jutted from its spine. At the very center of its head was another horn, this one with the gloss of pure gold, but curved upward like a rhino's horn, instead of unicorn's.

Straw began to chuckle. It built into a laugh that was two-parts amused, one part hysterical. He wiped the spit from the corner of his lip. "Ahah… I'm sorry," he said, "I thought you might actually summon me an opponent worthy of my strength. Instead—" All amusement gone, he straightened and his crimson eyes narrowed, "—you call your stuffed toy."

"Nihao! Attack!" Truemy shouted, and Nihao lifted into the air—

The blade flashed like lightening—too fast for her to actually follow its path—and suddenly, spouts of green goo were showering from the dragon's headless body.

The head smacked wetly into the wall, and the body remained midair for a split second, before flipping, and then thudding into the floor.

"N-No…"

"Did you think that I would let my creator live?" Straw questioned, coming up from his stance and posing languidly. He examined his sword, but didn't bother wiping away the green blood. "Just so that you could send me back into the tome, and to my inevitable death?" He snorted. "You're very naïve."

"I-I'm not naïve!" She tried to stand on the bed, but her knees were too wobbly. "If you'd stayed in the book like you were supposed to—"

"Oh, this is completely human error," Straw interrupted, "I saw those candles and the remains of the creation potion. This folly was all your doing, my dear Creator."

He crouched, took a step toward her. His mouth widened into a manic grin that almost split his face in two. She no longer thought he was anywhere near handsome. I'm going to die, she thought. Even if she had a backup plan, she was too freaking terrified to carry it out.

Straw jumped, sword-point outstretched. It ripped into her belly so quickly that she didn't know what was going on at first. And then she looked down, heard him snicker, and then laugh, and then saw the sword emerging, pulling out her intestines as it did. They splattered on the bed, sounding like canned beans dropping into the bottom of a pan.

Truemy whimpered. Straw laughed. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Creator."

He swung the sword, some of her intestines swinging off it and splattering against random surfaces. Then he brought it back, chopping her legs out from under her, permanently.

She vomited blood, fell on the floor and tried to crawl away, trailing pools of blood from her severed limbs behind her. Straw flipped her around, grabbing her by the hair. He knelt over her, still grinning as the madman he was, and reached into her mouth and ripped out her tongue with his bare hand.

She would have screamed of she was in shock from fear and blood loss. I don't want to die like this, she thought. But pure desire doesn't always bring things into being.

Truemy lived long enough to get to see Straw eat her own tongue… and enjoy it immensely.

The End.