30 author or host with anti
I’VE BEEN WORKING ON THIS FOR LIKE A WEEK
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Prompt 30: “One more chapter?”
The game had begun; as darkness fell over the dense, looming woods, two figures lurked just behind the treeline, two pairs of narrowed eyes focused on the desolate highway cutting through the middle of the forest.
“Soon,” the Author said with barely disguised satisfaction. His gaze cut toward Anti, who crouched in the brush, a smudge of green and black against the black and brown. “Be patient, for fuck’s sake.”
Anti practically quivered; the outlines of his form fizzed. “Is it for the sake of all fucks?” He asked without looking up. “Or is it for the sake of a single fuck?”
The sun set, dipping below the horizon as if it couldn’t stomach what it must witness otherwise. They continued waiting, waiting, waiting, until finally, finally, finally, a lone pair of LED high-beams rounded some distant, imaginary corner, appearing out of thin air as if it had been conjured. And there was a good chance it might have.
“Not yet,” the Author muttered. He’d whipped out a pen and was scribbling in his dog-eared, leather-bound journal. “Wait a second.”
“Ugh!” Anti fizzled, green specks flying from his body. They flared like fireflies before dying like sparks and sinking to the earth. “Enough waiting!” He demanded, and the edges of him began to blur. “Let’s go.”
As the Author began to snap out a reply, Anti dissolved; one moment there, the next not. At the exact same time, two twin pops startled the night as the headlights exploded in mini showers of glass. The car veered as its driver attempted to wrest it back under control, but there was no way Anti would allow that; the car swerved off the road and down the embankment. Seconds later there was a heavy crash! as it hit a tree.
The Author did not have to emerge from his woods to know this went down. This had all been written beforehand, therefore it must be what transpired. And so he didn’t bother stepping toward the road until Anti reappeared, hauling their hapless main character into view. His face was bruised and one of his lips split. His mouth was twisted into a vicious snarl.
Not so helpless, then. He liked a challenge. The Author snapped his journal shut and, with a smirk, strode from the trees.
Hours later, they drank. Whiskey and vodka, rum and beer. Cans and bottles littered the floor of the cabin, all but surrounding the man lying bound and gagged on the rough wooden boards. His eyelids fluttered.
They’d done good work, the Author thought as he scribbled half-slurred details into his journal, details about mazes and chainsaws and knives to the gut. This would make for a thrilling new novel. Bestselling, no doubt.
Anti lay on the couch, his legs draped over the far end. He wore a lazy look of overindulgence as he eyed first the character with his glowing green eye, then him.
“One more chapter?” He asked, flashing a grin.
The Author barely paused to consider. There was only one rule in regards to his novels, and that was that anything went. “Go ahead,” he muttered.
Anti’s grin got bigger, and he held out one hand, summoning his knife. It gleamed in the flickering light of the lantern. He then hauled himself off the couch and stepped over the debris to the character, bending over him and drawing a tight line across his own neck.
The last thing the Author bothered to observe before turning to record these events was the bright, glittering pupils of the character’s wide, frightened eyes.
