Why Writers Make Terrible Friends

1. We love our characters. More than real people.
Ever notice why we're loners and why we don't mind it? Our imaginary friends are just so much cooler than our real ones.

2. We like our solitude.
Don't bother us when we're alone. We're probably concocting a new idea for a story, and God help whoever tries to butt into our fantasies right in the middle of the best part.

3. We're editors at heart.
If your grammar is wrong, expect a long lecture on proper sentence structure. Even when you're talking. God help you if you send a writer an email with a misplaced comma. Just start planning your funeral now if you EVER send us a text like: i luv u. ttyl.

4. We're hopeless sadists.
We really do find pleasure in making our characters suffer. Why would it be any different with you? Beheadings, breakups, and just all-around strife is our specialty. I mean, where would our stories be if we think like normal happy people? "The unicorn flew up to the rainbow and lived happily ever after." Bestseller right there.

5. We're masters of BS.
Your character started out as an uncoordinated klutz and suddenly gained the ability to do the Tango? No problem! They're a secret agent from Spain...as of right this very minute. Just think what we can come up with when you ask us to go out to a party on Write Night.

6. We are really good with revenge. 
You eff us up, we'll write you in our story as the character that spontaneously combusts into flames and falls off a cliff into a tent full of hungry, zombie clowns.

7. Don't ask us for help with schoolwork.
World history test? Nah.
Biology project? I'll do that later.
English paper? Okay, maybe I'll do that.
Math? EW. Who does math? The only math I need is my word count.

8. Writing always comes first.
Who cares if it's your birthday? You have one every year. My character is just about to find a magical toad that will give him the mega awesome sword to save the world with. How many magical toads have you met, hmm? Yeah. That's right.

Credit to YuffieProductions.

Fly

   Fly, the wind whispers to me. Fly.

   But I can’t, is what I wish to say. Humans can’t fly.

   Though I know that if I do say that, the wind will ignore me. It won’t even acknowledge my response. It will continue to tell me to fly, for that’s all it ever tells me these days.

   Fly, it whispers again, whispers in my ear.

   I glance down, staring at the ocean below. The satin waves crash onto the deadly rocks, though I can barely hear the sound of the collision. The grass, turned brown due to lack of rain, sway at my feet, tickling my ankles. The blades of green seem to be on the same side as the wind; it’s almost as if they too are telling me to fly.

   I can’t.

  You won’t.

   I gaze up at the cloudless sky, an endless sea of blue. The sun shines proudly above, the beacon providing light in this dark universe. It dances in the sky, a dance that no one ever notices.

   Fly; touch the sun, touch the sky.

   A sudden gust of wind nearly knocks me over. It’s getting impatient, and I know that if I don’t take the risk soon, it will have no choice but to push me, shove me, until I’m over the edge, until I’m suspended in the sky.

   I look down to the ocean once again. You can’t fly, they tell me. If you try to, you will fail, and will be swallowed.

   The water continues to taunt me. They tell me that I can’t fly, and I choose to believe their lies. I block the voice of the wind out; I’m sick and tired of hearing its voice. I need it to stop pestering me to do something I’m not capable of doing.

   Besides, I don’t want to take the risk, only to have the ocean swallow me.

   I breathe in the salty air, listening to the ocean crashing against the same, sharp rocks. You can’t fly, and you’ll never be able to. At least I’m not the only one who knows that I’m not able to fly.

   You can’t fly.

   You can’t fly.

   You can’t fly.

   It continues to taunt me.

   Please, I beg. Stop.

   You can’t fly.

   You can’t fly.

   You can’t fly.

   It doesn’t listen when I ask it to stop.

   You can’t fly.

   You can’t fly.

   You can’t fly.

   I can’t take this anymore. I could deal with it at first, but now it’s out of my control. The peaceful blue of the ocean now seems darker, more sinister. I try to block out the sound of its taunting voice, but it still travels straight through my brain, implanting itself there.

   Please.

   The water seems nearly black now, and dark clouds have appeared, blocking out the sun’s light. As I stand on the edge of this cliff, listening to the ocean’s taunts in the darkness, is the time where I wish I could still hear the sound of the wind. I can’t handle any of this anymore.

   I stare down, wondering how the impact of the sinister water would feel. How drowning would feel. How it would feel to lose all the oxygen I have left.

   How it would feel to die. 

   You can fly, a voice whispers to me from the back of my mind. You can fly, it repeats.

   I turn my face upward, to see that the clouds are beginning to fade.

   You can fly. The voice is louder this time. 

   I feel something, against my skin, in my hair, at my feet.

   I hear something, in my ears, in my head.

   I see something, high up in the sky, shining bright once again. 

   Fly, the wind whispers to me. Fly.

   Without a second thought, I jump off of the cliff, spreading my newfound wings and I touch the sun, touch the sky.

   I fly.