I do think that the life of authors make excellent stories, for there’s so much going on in our life.


All along the way, under a torrential rainfall, she achingly sobbed while holding tightly against her heart the leather bag that contained some parts of her imagination. She cried so much that an excruciating pain struck her heart.

Everything was broken – the pavement, the surrounding, her dreams, her self-esteem, her self-confidence as a writer.

He told her that she had written a miserable story that nobody would ever want to read, that it was a literary abomination, and finished his murderous speech by telling her that she should definitely smother the writer in her, when it took her four long years of research, of thinking, and writing.

His stabbing words killed all the dreams that she tenderly bred.

That’s where overwhelmed with disappointment and a nameless feeling of emptiness, she wretchedly tore each page from her manuscript and buried them in the thick, muddy soil.

She then stood haggard under the heavy rain, and remembered the time when she started to write that story. Her mind recollected all tiny moments of happiness and pride she felt after she had been able to finish a chapter, and remembered as well those nights where she only had for companion the sounds of leaves and breeze, and the sight of the moon and stars while she wrote till the break of day.

As her self-confidence slowly returned, she suddenly realised that she had made a terrible mistake, and started to dig furiously through the mud with bare hands, in search of her treasured manuscript.

But unfortunately, she only found broken down papers soaked in muddy waters. Shocked, she suddenly had a brutal seizure, the rain stopped, and all the ink from the book manuscript that had dissolved in water suddenly emerged out from the thick mud as droplets that floated till her body.

Ink completely covered her skin, and little by little it morphed into words that made up the book that she had written… where each page that she had torn to bury now tattooed her body.

Suddenly she felt light as a feather, and heavy rain fell again, but this time she didn’t get wet, it was as if she was surrounded by a transparent bubble.

She felt the strange sensation of floating without a body, and in the blink of an eye she was in front of the house of Mr.Feith — that same vile writer who had been so rude to her earlier. He was sitting by the window, writing at the light of a large candelabra. And as soon as she wanted to know what Mr.Feith was writing, she instantly found herself perching at the back of his head, looking at what he was doing. That’s when she understood that Mr.Feith was busy copying word for word the story from a copy of her own book manuscript. He omitted nothing.

Enraged, she unconsciously knocked down the candelabra, whose candles set fire to the papers that were on his desk, then right after, all of the words that were on her body materialised in human shape in front of a terrorised Mr.Feith… It strangled him, and released his neck before he stopped breathing. Horrified, Mr.Feith ran away screaming insanely, while hungry flames devoured his house.

One month later Wri Wright slowly and painfully opened her eyes on the bed of a hospital. They said that passers-by found her unconscious by the river bank, soaked wet, with both her hands buried in the mud, alongside a leather bag.

“Hello Miss Wright,” said the man with a pleasant face. He sat next to her, a book manuscript in his hand — her, manuscript. “I was one among the passers-by who found you by the river, a little bit messed up you were. Anyhow, I permitted myself to read the manuscript that was in a leather bag beside you… are you the author of this story?”

“What! The manuscript was still in my bag? But!…” She tried hard to remember what exactly happened to her on that day, but only blurry images of heavy rainfall, mud, and tears came to her. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember what happened that day… but I am the author of that story.”

“Well then, let me introduce myself, I am the chief editor of a well-known publishing house, and I can tell you that you are a very talented writer who wrote a very unique and captivating story… and I want to publish your book, and as well launch your career as an author… is that okay with you, Miss Wright?”

Wri Wright was suddenly overwhelmed with an immense feeling of joy and gratitude. “Thank you so much… thank you one thousand times. Yes, I heartily accept your proposition. You are making my dream come true.”

“I was on my way to see Mr.Feith when I stumbled on you. Have you ever heard of him?”

“Yes, I heard that he could help me publish my book… I even had an appointment with him, but I don’t remember when,” she frowned, trying hard to remember.

“Good you didn’t put your book in the hands of this fraud and crook. For years now he has been submitting to my publishing house plagiarised works, which we were not aware of, until recently when a sensational article appeared on newspapers about his malfeasances, and where our publishing house suddenly lost its good reputation.”

“What a jerk!,” she said.

“Anyway,” he sighed, “that same day we found you, he was also found in front of his burning house, terrorised, and raving mad about the devil being after him.”

“Well, that would have made a good horror story,” she said smiling.

“Certainly,” he responded keenly.