This is a very short piece. The inspiration came to me while I was driving today. It’s an idea that I plan on investigating in length later. Based on the idea that once a book/story is written, the intent of the author is irrelevant because it’s in the hands of the reader to interpret. I could write an essay about this, but I’ll spare you.
Anyway, just putting the idea out. This would likely be the first draft of the final part of a larger story. Let me know if you like the idea and if you would read a longer version of this.
Today had just been exhausting. This had to be the second maths test Laura had failed in the last three weeks. It was also the first time she’d had two maths test in three weeks.
Maths was the last straw – the last piece of evidence she needed. All Laura had to do was find a way to persuade her author to make things more desirable.
She closed her eyes, turned off any source of sound, and tried to zone out.
The author heard a noise behind them and turned around.
A sixteen year old girl stood in the middle of the lounge room, looking a bit confused.
“What the hell are you doing here?” the author asked, standing up.
The girl stopped and looked at the author. Her eyes narrowed.
“You’re the author.”
“And you’re Laura,” the author said. “But you’re not supposed to be here.”
“You have to change my story.”
“I don’t have to do anything.”
Laura looked around the apartment. It was a small one bedroom, mostly white surfaces, minimalist. The fanciest thing here was the authors laptop, the thing controlling her life.
“At least change my maths score,” Laura said.
The author sighed and crossed their arms. “I don’t think you understand. Sometimes I write things because it was part of the plan. Sometimes, the characters are just idiots and don’t study hard enough.”
“Not hard enough, evidently.”
Laura picked up a pair of scissors sitting on a bench. “What happens to me?”
“I don’t know yet. You’re the master of your own fate.”
Scoffing, Laura opened the scissors. “No, you’re the master of my fate.”
“I think it’s time for you to leave.”
The author turned around to start writing again, but before they could finish their sent
When I opened my sapphire eyes, I was lying on the ground. I never go on the ground, because it’s dirty, so this was really weird. Anyway, I stood up and brushed the dust from my short blonde hair. My red dress with white spots was a bit crinkled, but I smoothed it down and walked to a mirror.
Interesting. I’d read more. When you chose to not reveal the gender identity of the author, the writing/reading was awkward. It wouldn’t have taken away from the plot to have done so. I hope you do build this sometime.