this is your novel

You roll out of bed, feet touching the cold floor, inhaling sharply as you feel the wood sink just a little with your weight - you have to be careful that the house does not crash to the ground when you move. You make your way carefully through the crap piled up on the floor, the insect nests that buzz slightly as you disturb them. You ignore it. Cracking open your bedroom door, you rub your eyes.

Tired is an understatement.

You hear the buzz of the insects in your room as they wander out after you, inextricably linked ever since That Day. You peer into the living room, to check your charges are still there. The Plant Woman and the corpse you found deep under the earth where the town library used to stand are still there. The corpse is perfectly preserved minus some blood around the facial area - where the eyes, nose, and ears bled. You don’t know what happened to that person, but you’re sure you’ll be able to ask them soon. The Plant Woman is still staring at her hands, examining the worms and insects that crawl between the vines that hold her body together.

Whether she is plant or human, you can’t tell - you’re too tired - no, tired is an understatement.

You run your tongue across smooth teeth and examine your distinguished guests for awhile longer before turning to continue your exit. The insects march along behind you, thousands of footfalls in unison, a neat procession. Almost like a funeral march.

Opening the door reveals the dark night sky, your house floating above the all-consuming forest, the sky a beautiful painting of shimmering eyes across the horizon, and hazy clouds that seem to glitch in and out of existence. When the stars blink, the world feels so much darker for a split second, and yet, it was only a split second. Almost like real life.

Damn, you think. That was good. You hope that’s written in your book.

Ah, right. Your book. You almost forgot. You reach down into the wood floor, hand crackling in protest as you push through the matter to grab the book out of hammerspace. It forms in your hand as you pull it out of the flooring, hissing with irritation.

One thing many didn’t know about their books was that they carried a part of themselves. The most crucial part; the day that makes or breaks them - or both. You have read to the end of your story already. Now that your day is here, you wonder. Can you really change fate? Or will your fatigue take over you?

You step out into thin air, feet tumbling below you before you will yourself to slow down and land, pulling out your pen to