[AN OFFICE]
White walls.
Very bright room.
And very spacious.
Very big.
In it, Nothing other than a table.
And a man.
MAN
"Enter."
The office door morphs.
Spits in another man into the office.
MAN
"...You must be the author."
THE AUTHOR
"I must be."
MAN
"This is an afterword."
THE AUTHOR
"I know. I'm the one who wrote it."
MAN
"Seeing how you...Wrote everything. You must know what i'm going to say next."
THE AUTHOR
"Not necesarrily."
MAN
"Necessarily. You mispelled it."
THE AUTHOR
"Force of habit."
MAN
"How can you possibly not know what i'm going to say next?"
THE AUTHOR
"It's complicated. Because, You see...I improvise. The dialogues i write, They're improvs."
MAN
"Even if you improvise. Even so, That means...You got everything thought out beforehand, Yes? You improvise, You thought of the lines in your head, Before writing it? Correct?"
THE AUTHOR
"Well, I haven't got to the complicated part yet. The thing is, You asked...Why can't i know what you're going to say next, Yes?"
MAN
"Correct."
THE AUTHOR
"Well, How can i know what you're gonna say next, When i am you."
MAN
"Plausible."
THE AUTHOR
"My legs are killing me, Can i sit?"
MAN
"I haven't offered you that yet."
Silence.
Both still standing opposite each other.
MAN
"Would you like a seat?"
THE AUTHOR
"Thank you."
A chair grew in front of the Man's desk.
MAN
"Sit."
The author teleports onto the chair.
THE AUTHOR
"Comfy."
MAN
"Your creation."
THE AUTHOR
"Right on."
MAN
"A bit funny isn't it?"
YOU ARE READING
Perspective.
Short StoryA collection of short stories that make up an anthology series, following people's many chapters in life.
