The Writer's Master

Every Writer's Master

In bare feet and a yellow sun dress the writer stepped into the meadow. A gentle breeze tugged at her long dark hair and made the grass and flowers dance. In the distance the ground dropped away, the edge of the world was beautiful, not terrifying. The writer gazed over the meadow and the edge, taking in the lush green of the grass and the light purple sky. Everything was beautiful.

Slowly she walked through the field, enjoying the breeze in her hair and the earth under her feet. With delight she saw two large rabbits in the middle of the meadow. They were the most adorable bunnies she had ever seen, covered in fluffy gray fur that looked impossibly soft. As the writer took another step closer to them, they perked their ears toward her and twitched their pink noses.

Worried she might frighten them, the writer knelt down a short distance away, content to simply watch the cute bundles. To her delight, the two rabbits started scuffling toward her, slowly at first then moving in swift leaps.

Her glee faded as they got closer. Grass and flowers shriveled up and died as they went past, leaving a brown scar in their wake. Their appearance changed as they drew closer. No longer did they look like lovable bundles of joy. Their once soft coats now looked mangy and course. One's eyes changed from dark brown to blood red while the other's were now a sickly yellow. Both had long, jagged fangs and claws. Voices, their voices, began to flood the writer's thoughts.

The writer knew what these were. "Get back!" she screamed as she stumbled over herself, trying to flee the creatures. Heart pounding, she ran across the meadow toward a dark forest. The breeze was now a driving wind and it buffeted her about as she fled. Rocks and twigs tried to trip her. Above the field the sky went from lavender to a swirling mass of black, blue, and purple, like a fresh, deep bruise. A glance over her shoulder made her pick up the pace; the original two creatures had been joined by hoards of the grotesque monsters. They came dashing toward her from all angles, almost cutting her off from the forest.

As the writer fled into the forest, the creatures followed. These terrifying monsters were the bane of every writer, feared almost as much as the dreaded writer's block. They could be a blessing to the uninspired, but for most, an overwhelming curse. Writers were vulnerable to them at all times and all places. They were plot bunnies. These were not gentle muses, rather hard task masters. Prone to attack in swarms, plot bunnies filled writer's heads with story ideas, more than the writer could possibly write. They never waited for their writer to finish a story before multiplying. Each plot bunny's story was just as enjoyable to the writer as the next, never letting the writer prioritize one over the other. As the plot bunnies multiplied, they pushed the very sanity of their writer to the brink.

The darkness was overwhelming under the trees. Branches like claws reached out and snagged the writer's dress and hair. On all sides eyes glowed between the trees, some red, others sickly shades of yellow or green. A deep feral growl vibrated through the forest, punctuated at random by other sounds: Trumpets blasted a triumphant fanfare, steel clashed against steel, gunfire raged, cannon reports rippled over the ocean, many, many other sounds came from all directions. All these noises back dropped by an eerie whisper, seeming to come from a hundred synchronized voices, "Write us," they crooned.

In some places the trees thinned enough so the writer could see the roiling sky. Giant keys from a keyboard and wadded pieces of paper swirled above the forest. As she kept running, the trees gradually were replaced by enormous pencils, pens, and eraser sticks.

Abruptly the forest of writing instruments ended, and so did the ground a short distance after. The writer skidded to a stop at the very edge of the world. Whirling around, she watched in horror as an army of plot bunnies swarmed out of the forest. With nowhere else to run there was only one thing left to do: Fight. She ripped out a sapling pencil growing next to her, testing it in her hand it like a sword, then grabbed a Delete key which had fallen from the bruised sky to use as a shield. For a moment everything was still. Then, the attack! First, just one leapt forward and it was easily cut down. After that they came in a steady stream of fangs and claws.

Nobly the writer defended herself. For a while she kept the grotesque monsters at bay, but there were too many. The pencil was ripped from her hand and the Delete key became mangled and useless. Defenseless, the writer was overrun. The monsters dragged her to the ground. Her struggling was futile as they piled on top of her.

Suddenly a vision invaded her mind. A magnificent castle loomed in the distance against a clear blue sky. A procession of mounted knights made their way through a cobblestone street. Peasants lined the street, waving and cheering. The knights' armor glinted in the sunlight. Banners of every color streamed above the knights carried by standard-bearers dressed in colors matching those they flew. There was to be a great tournament and…

The vision shattered, replaced by the terrifying face of a new plot bunny with pale green eyes.

Another scene entered the writer's mind. The crack of laser fire filled the air as a huge battled raged. Clouds covered the moon and stars, occasionally illuminated by a distant explosion which shook the ground. A young soldier in a long brown coat dove behind a boulder. Shots rained around him, spraying mud and stone into the air. The young soldier clutched his rifle to his chest. He was alone, cut off from the rest of his squad. This was his last stand…

The vision changed again. A single man, robed and hooded in white, armed to the teeth, stood on the roof of a two story building. The Roman Coliseum rose up behind him, dominating the horizon. An eagle flew through the sky as the man prepared to scale the landmark…

More visions swam in front of the writer's eyes. Words swirled through the scenes, creating ribbons of text. It was too much to take in, none of it made sense. She screamed.



The writer awoke with a violent start. Her room was dark except for the soft glow of her alarm clock. Not wanting to know the time, she lay still and waited for her heart to stop pounding. After a long while she reluctantly rolled over to look at the clock. It read 2:07 AM. She sighed in frustration as she realized the truth. With a great effort she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stumbled to her computer desk. Turning on the computer she rubbed her eyes. There would be no more sleeping tonight. She was enslaved by the plot bunny masters.