Ask The Author

The Author sat quietly at his desk, gaze level to the one who had approached. The light provided by only a meager table lamp was not enough to see his expression clearly. Yet even without it, those eyes would be hard to judge. There was no irritated glare at being interrupted, or sadistic amusement at the notion of his own existence scaring this person. A smile did not turn the lines of his face, a scowl did not highlight the sharp edges of cheekbone.

No anger, no glee, no mischief. All that existed on his frame was a harshness. A cold, cutting blaze, a wildfire that burned and ravaged and denied any rebirth or warmth. It traveled along his knit brow, crawled down a tense neck, collected in the weight of his shoulders, and settled between his clasped hands. When The Author looked across his desk at this fearful person, he contained this harshness within his form.