The Playwright
Katherine WB
He sat. Cup full of coffee. Eyes with a twinkle full of both malice and benevolence. His hands were still dirty and the man had an air of almost cruelty about him, only visible through the tinge of a smirk teasing his lips.
The man’s name was William, but his name was the least interesting thing about him, as it often is with those brimming with thoughts. The idealists. The dreamers.
His hand was shaking and one could barely tell if it was the adrenaline or the caffeine, I doubt the man himself was sure. His pen was the source, the manifestation of his thoughts the ink crawling across the paper, its crawling lines orchestrating a play he himself was merely the audience of.
And he watched, William did, as each character grasped the little life he had to give them and flew across the page, revelling in their newfound freedom and he glared almost enviously as they lived the life he had done nothing but provide them with.
And he screamed a hellish wail of jealously but sympathy. Understanding his ignorance the man ripped into their lives, the ink their blood, across the paper and staining his hands until his vision filled with the absence of life he once provided them with.