Death of the Author

Sophie stirred to consciousness and found herself laying face down on a plush rug. Her eyes blinked open, only seeing a bright red. She jumped up to survey the room surrounding the red rug.

Teal walls, one door, one window, and a desk and chair under the window.

She approached the window to try figure out where she was, but the window was far too bright to see out of. She surveyed the desk and found a notepad, a pen, a note, and stacks of other notepads neatly arranged along one side of the desk.

She picked up the note and read.

Sophie,

Sorry to inform you but you are dead. I know this may come as a bit of a shock, but it's sadly the way of the world. This may take a little time to process but when you're ready, I have a request of you.

I wrote you. In fact, I wrote everybody you ever knew. But you were something else. You came alive as I wrote, and you seemed to write yourself. It may not have seemed like it but the universe slowly began to revolve around you. I found it hard not to focus on your point of view, and over time I realised you were what I'd been waiting for.

So with that in mind I've decided to retire, and to pass the reigns on to you. I believe you can do it; in fact, I know you can. All you've got to do is pick up that pen and write. It's your story now, and you have all the time in the universe to tell it.

If you need some inspiration, feel free to read through mine and the other's work; we've left some of our favourites out for your perusal.

Once you're done, come join us down the hall; we're looking forward to seeing your work.

Yours truly, Sam