Augusta Writers: Darkness pooled around her ankles while a searing Cold eased its way into her bones. This was the first sign that the Reader had not listened. There were few words to describe the feeling of stupidity and uselessness of having failed; it was her fault. She had labeled him as a victim and a victim he had become, succumbing to Stoph and his cronies. What part of “run now,” did he not comprehend? She sighed to herself as a dejected realization donned on her that maybe that was the issue. He had read the words on her wall, but The Writer was uncertain if he, The Reader, had in fact, comprehended.
Stoph comprehended. The evil bastard comprehended everything.
For years Scriveners had work fervently to ensure that words would never fade from the walls of mankind. The earliest writers on cave walls only transcended history as Homer through Socrates on down through the ages continued the craft. It was pure. It was real, but it was only alive if there were Readers. Readers who comprehended the complexity of the language. Readers who could evolve the language. Readers who would keep the words, alive.
She had failed so many times in this life attempting to keep the Readers engaged. A tear rolled down her cheek when she thought of her friend in the back room of that dark castle writing play after sonnet after play only to have another take his name and profit from the craft. Irony was not lost on such a Shakespearian tragedy, as that writer, became part of the folklore.
The irony still played on later years as readers went blind by candlelight attempting to discern the messages hidden in the works. Each generation bred new means of mass production of words and the new millennia brought on new challenges and far graver threats. As easy as it is to get the writings to many readers, it is even more simplistic to corrupt the bibliophile. Short cuts through writings and the art of adding much control with C only to release impure thoughts with the control of V. Each time a writer believed the words to be pure; Stoph and his cronies added a hitch, where no one could get along.
The Reader needed to get along. She was angry at the Reader. She was angry at Stoph because he too knew the kid wasn’t ready, he was testing him to see what he knew. Obviously he knew very little because sign number two was that a dark man, in a dark hat, spit a dark loogie into a napkin and place it back in his pocket. Although the Beetleguice reference was not lost on the writer, it still failed to reason which part of the Reader’s brain didn’t register the “wrongness” of that scenario. The common man would have ran, but this kid had heart. A heart that required saving.
The Writer was angry with herself for not having told him more, but it doesn’t work that way. You don’t really get to pick and choose who to save or how much info to give. You gave as much as time allowed and one had to wait to see if there was growth. You stick and maneuver and this would call for some serious maneuvering, to pull the kid back into the fold. A fleeting thought of “let him go,” flashed across her painted lids, followed by the thoughts of two and three, of the other readers in the café. One of six was down. Two of Six was too over weight. Three of Six over analyzed even the simplest text and Four and Five were just sad. He was One and One had to be helped.
The Writer manifested on the scene before Stoph had a chance to touch the Reader. In corporeal form, she held a cell phone in her hand, putting on her best Southern Bell voice, “Oh, My Word that young man seems to be out like a light. Thank Heavens for this little ole cell phone!” Stoph turned and she held her ground seeming a vapid socialite wearing a whopsided Fascinator covered in pink chicken feathers. She paid him little heed as she pushed passed the Faustian villain to kneel at Syndney’s side, while talking to the 911 Dispatcher. The open water bottle seemed to sprout holes as water fell in rhythmic droplets on the Reader’s face, whilst she prattled on about the homeless, her new red shoes and the amount of feathers required making a true Fascinator. The first drop of water touched Stoph’s leg which caused the Demon to recoil. The following droplets sprayed his hands and arms forcing him to almost retreat while she still prattled on about the red shoes supposed need to match the one red ruby in the middle of the silly hat. When she touched the Ruby she also touched Sydney and his body immediately reacted to her touch.
There was no time to Stoph to react. Once her hand touched Sydney’s face, the Reader and the Writer disappeared.
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