Author finds herself out of her depth
I was lost. Panicked, I began to run, but the further I went the more I realised I recognised none of my surroundings. Heart racing, I wanted to scream, but forced myself to stop running, to take a breath.
The darkness scared me. How had I arrived at this place? The moon shone, but half-heartedly, shining little, if any, light on the rocky terrain. Clouds scudded over the sliver of cold silver, allowing little illumination.
I found myself in a small clearing in a forest of trees, oozing melevalance. Each one seemed to turn as far as their roots and stiff trunks would allow, to stare at me. Their branches reached out, as if they needed to touch me.
A bird called out from atop a gnarled tree. Its call was one I’d never heard before. “Lost are you? Lost are you?” I thought I heard it say in a mocking tone.
I looked up, attempting to get a glimpse of my tormentor, seeing only its eyes at first. They glowed red, unblinking, with a hostile stare. I knew I wasn't welcome.
My eyes gradually became accustomed to the semi-darkness. I forced myself to move closer into a copse of trees, until encircled. Leaves began to fall, first a single one which became entangled in my long hair. Then more. Ever faster they fell on to my head and shoulders. I retrieved the one from my hair and stared at it. It wasn’t simply a leaf, it was the letter G. Soon the forest floor was covered in letter shaped leaves.
How had I come to be in such a place? Was I dreaming?
The bird fluttered down onto the forest floor, and settled on to the deepening piles of leaves. It cocked its head and spoke to me. “Are you satisfied now, Gloria?”
I was at a loss for words, unusual for me, an author. My stories had sold in many languages, all over the globe.
“I don’t know what’s happening?” I stammered.
“All these words, and you don’t recognise them?” the bird squawked.
I simply shook my head. I could barely see through the endless rain of leaves.
“The trees are never noticed for their beauty, or appreciated for their life giving oxygen.” To you they’re simply there to make paper for your stories. The bird flapped its long black wing feathers, pointing them skyward. “80,000 words, 350,000 letters. In just one of your literary efforts.”
I couldn’t see, I was being buried by all the letters. “Help me.” I tried to say, but my words were lost as more letter shaped leaves cascaded over me, getting into my mouth, choking, suffocating.
“You’re responsible for the deaths of these trees. See, they’re marked for destruction, for pulping. They’re simply giving you your words back before they die”
I slipped under the deluge. Lost in my own bestseller.