3. [WP] Write a short story from the perspective of a book.

[WP] Write a short story from the perspective of a book.

You have your classics, who everyone looks up to, your best sellers, who everyone wants to be like, and your trashy novels, who only get their first chapter read before they are thrown aside. Then you have me, a diary. Us diaries’ stories are constantly changing. Books often wish they were diaries, so that they can experience the thrill of becoming something new every night, just before their human goes to bed. Those books couldn't be more wrong.

Every single day I wait, in my dusty little cupboard. I wait, and dread, the moment my human comes home. For twenty three hours I wait every day, praying that I will be spared. Praying that by some random even my humans house will be struck by lightning and I will fly away in the form of ashes, never to be bound by my inanimate form again. But everyday whatever higher being watches out for us books turns his back on me, and lets me suffer. How could he?

I hear a door burst open and a child, my human, shouting joyfully. Oh how much do I hate her voice.

“MOOOOOOOOOM! IM HOOOOMME!” My human roars in her shrill voice, sending shivers down my well-worn spine. Please, whatever God there is, sprout me angelic wings to life me from this pit of sickening joy and delight. sigh .Alas, if there was a God, would be bestow upon me such great suffering? What have I done? Or are diaries, by default, sentenced so eternal suffering? Let me die. Let me bathe in the warmth of a brilliant fire.

My human, Julia as her elders refer to her, bounces her way up the stairs. The thuds of her feet draining whatever life I have left from my pages. Her demonic giggles echoing throughout my cupboard, mocking me. You are simply a lifeless object. There is no escape. There is only suffering. Perhaps I have some hope left; Julia, or perhaps the child of Satan himself, hasn't sharpened her weapon of torture for six days. If there is a God, he will at least give me this, one day of lessened pain is all I ask. Let the blade be dull my lord, let the blade be dull.

“AWWW MY PENCIL BROKE!” I hear the gruesome creature pout, spewing acid from her eyes as the enters her lair, where I reside in a cupboard. Has god heard my call? Will he give me this one day of peace? But in the end, what does it matter? In no time at all the beast will be back with a sword sharper than ever before, to inflict more pain than ever before. All I ask is that you smite this foul excuse for a soul. Make her die. If you cannot do that, my lord, at least let me burn.

“THANKS MOM!” Julia shouts in horrific glee. My punisher enters the room, hand held sharpener in one hand and pencil in the other. PLEASE GOD. JUST ONE DAY FREE OF AGONY. I BEG. I WILL DO ANYTHING. But in the end, no mercy is granted, nor will ever be granted. Life to diaries is only pain. Helpless to our own destruction.

Julia rips open the cupboard with her unruly might and thrusts me upon a desk, to be dissected. She opens to one of my pages, seventeen, as she hones her brutal weapon. Brace yourself.

She scars me, letter by letter, branding me with death. When will the pain stop. Suffering, grief, misery, woe, desolation, solitary. I am all of these, and will never not be.

But finally, I cannot take it anymore, will all the strength I have, into my own soul, I engrave, “Let me go, you foul being.” And onto my own pages it appears, and I know she sees it too, for her eyes are alight in horror. I am the author know. And upon Julia’s forehead I carve “May you be damned”.

But perhaps she was not the true enemy, as she then hurls me into the flames I have longed for, all my life.

Bliss

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