The terrain melted under the snowfall that drifted down. It was the soft kind that didn’t stick together and when kicked it flew up and sprinkled itself on the ground again. He buried himself into his coat and forced his way through the snow, feeling the cold seep into his clothes. Even though he didn’t like to walk through this kind of weather, he still had to walk through it to reach his mailbox. He shivered and did a quick dash for the final few feet. Then he stumbled once he came to a stop in front of the mailbox, nearly tumbling down. But he managed to grab onto the box and stop himself mid fall.
“That was close,” he sighed, pulling himself off the mailbox.
He dusted the snow off the top of his mailbox lovingly and cracked the door open. Nothing. He slammed it shut and groaned, it was a month since he last got a letter. He looked back up the path he had created just coming down from his cabin to the mailbox. He was beginning so suspect it wasn’t worth it to get frostbite just to check and see if she sent a letter. He kicked the snow and stomped back up to his house the same way he came.
The cabin he lived in was similar to the kind that early settlers lived in. large trunks still covered in bark were stacked upon each other to create the one roomed house. He opened the door and winced when it screeched at the henges. Inside the fire glowed and burned in the stone fireplace, eating at the fresh wood he’d put on it that morning. In the corner away from the fire was a writing desk with a typewriter and across from that was a matress on the floor.
He walked over to the writing desk and threw himself into the chair. The agonising boredom was eating at his patience that was normally better. The worn keys called to him as his emotions grew stronger. Write another chapter, they seemed to say, you know you want to. He stared at the key, breathing heavily as he tried to hold back his temptation. But when he finally felt he had calmed down his fingers were making their way across the keys. The little hand devils had a mind of their own some days to the point of where it was rather annoying. He proof read as he was writing:
Terra was slammed against the wall, the hand around her throat tightening. Her sword was beginning to slip on the blood and out of her hand. The face of the evil king was warped with a horrid sort of glee that made his face look even more scarred than it already was. She knew her friends depended on her but as her life slipped away, so did that fiery determination that burned in her chest. Her eyes closed and her mind whispered to her to just give in. it was easier that way wasn’t it.
“Give in princess,” the king cackled, “you know you want to,”
He forced his fingers to stop as he heard a whisper float through the air. They hovered for a moment as he craned his head around to find the source of the noise. The fire crackled as it bit into another log, but apart from that and the hiss of the wind there was nothing. There’s nothing, the typewriter seemed to say again, write my friend. So he did with the hair on the back of his neck refusing settle down. His fingers working on their own again to continue the chapter:
There was a spark in Terra’s soul as she heard those words. Something rebellious and fighting forced her eyes open. She saw the men and women that had helped her to get there. A smile on the tavern owners face, the Naomi with her bow and arrow, the mysterious Raven with his eyepatch, and the seven lords and ladies of the broken castle. Even when she blinked and they disappeared she still felt their presence. She took this and forced her arm with the sword up and swung it at the king.
“I will never give in!” she shouted as the sword made contact.
He heard it again, this time louder than before, and he stood up immediately. Fear gripped him as he walked across the hardwood floor, and he searched every little dark corner for the voice. There was still nothing there that could have made the noise. The cabin was spotless and empty except for the writing desk, the mattress, and the fire. The typewriter called to him again only this time he blocked its manipulative whispers. He just stood there still as a stone pillar. He didn’t want to write anymore, he didn’t want to be here anymore.
He ran for the door and thrust it open. He closed his eyes against the cold and stepped into the snow. He ran from the cabin, wishing to be anywhere but there. It was his own choice to live there so he could finish the final book in peace, and it could also be his to abandon it as well. So he kept running like he ran from the critics, from fans, from the world, even his own wife who sent him letters every month. He kept running until he felt the ground warm up and the snow vanish. Then he opened his eyes, but what he saw when he opened them was nothing short of scary.
He saw Terra with her sword lodged into the side of the dark king, her white hair dyed red with his blood. They were frozen in time as the king was in mid roar and Terra’s mouth was opened wide in a battle cry. He could see the stark differences between the two characters, that only moments before were only mental paintings. He looked around for his cabin and found that it wasn’t there. Instead he now stood in the dark throne room of the king, covered in splashes of red blood. He turned back to the scene when he noticed something moving out of the corner of his eye. Terra was fighting back against the pause, her blue eyes making contact with his green. Her mouth spasmed against the invisible force and she spoke.
“Why are you running away again Michael?” she said, her jaw moving sporadically, “we all want to know how it ends.”
He turned around to run away again and faced the writing desk with the typewriter waiting for him…