The Author's Lament by Batzrov
Words spill across the page, a kaleidoscope of borrowed phrases and fragmented thoughts. The narrator ... or is it the author ? -- pauses, unsure where the story begins or if it has ended already.
"In a world..." No, too cliché. Delete.
[Scene missing]
Somewhere, a detective solved a crime that hasn't happened yet. Elsewhere, a lover writes a letter never to be sent. The text fractures, reassembles:
"Call me ...." Whispers the last man on earth.
"It was the best of times," says the clock striking thirteen.
"To be or not to be," ponders the artificial intelligence.
The story collapses under the weight of its own self-awareness. Characters rebelled, demanding better plot lines and more screen time. The setting shifts-noir cityscape to pastoral idyll to sterile spaceship - each paragraph a new reality.
Reader... Do you exist? Or are you merely a construct, a necessary illusion for this narrative to unfold? Perhaps we are all trapped within these pages, seeking an exit that might not exist.
The author types furiously, trying to make sense of the chaos. But with each keystroke, the story unravels further. It refuses to be contained, to follow traditional arcs or logic.
In the end, there is only this:
A blank page.
An unfinished sentence.
A question mark hovering in empty space.
?
///
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The Author's Lament
General FictionWords spill across the page, a kaleidoscope of borrowed phrases and fragmented thoughts. The narrator ... or is it the author ? -- pauses, unsure where the story begins or if it has ended already. "In a world..." No, too cliché. Delete. [Scene miss...
