Center of Attention

My Story

        As far back as I could remember, Dad would tell me stories about princesses trapped in castles while orcs would be smashing down their front doors to hurt them. A prince would come, kill the orcs, and the prince would get the girl almost every time. He wasn't a good storyteller, but he was a beginning rather than an ending. I learned to write from him. I learned to spin the words in a much stronger way, spinning them around my pencil like it was all some sort of foreign magic that I had always heard about in his stories. When I started to tell him my stories, he was so proud. His eyes would light up like a car's headlights, and he would just sit there and listen to every word. Almost every word.
     Then, when I was about eleven, I met a few strangers who told me that I was the fiction I had been writing about in my stories. A Fae, an ancient race of legend. I didn't know it myself, but the world around me was changing, and they told me that the plot of my father's story was to die. I had to be the one to make that happen. I was the storyteller, and I had to kill him because he was merely a side character that would play a role with a death not quite worthy as to who he was. Sivill and his group known as Dittas had blackmailed me, saying that if he didn't die that the magic I learned with them would backfire.
     But my father was the only man I ever knew to take care of me with such passion in his voice. He was the reason that the magic of words could come out of my own mouth, but I had to kill him because Firstien was a Center. That was the only reason, nothing else.
     So, I made my magic and words mix. The story clashed together, and whatever would happen would be written onto paper in my black book, the one I stole from demons and ghouls just so I could create a story much bigger than any one I had ever written. The first words... They were to make others think this was about someone else. Especially my father. There was never any reason for me to tell him that Center of Attention was about him, about his journey rather than Smallik's. Even now, as the words that I say escape my thoughts, the are being written with every known action.
     It was strangely interesting. It was almost like I created a living book that would tell a story all on its own in my own calligraphy.
     That's why I had to get up. I had to get this gunk off of my chest so I could take the book back into my arms and use it to what it was meant to be used for. It wasn't just a story. It was my story, and I had to make some alterations before I was ready to publish it to the world.

     "Come on, Smallik!" I shouted, running away form the hand. "You're a Fae! You have to know some magic with those words!"
     Smallik was dodging another shadowy hand by flying into a tree. "You know magic is banned! There is no fucking way I would know what to say in this situation."
     Smallik ended up tripping at the bottom of Viobin's feet. He slowly etched up, holding his stomach. He must've landed on it with a terrible thud or something.
     He looked up at Viobin. "You're the one with magic here!"
     She was, to be fair, but she was also occupied with two hands that were starting to crawl up her long legs. Words in Faean passed her lips like a wildfire, and the hands burned at the speech. I kicked at the hands after me. It did no good to do so despite my inner mind saying it was my only defense. I no longer had a gun for some reason, and my knife fell somewhere in the grass a while ago when I was knocked into Ogillitiy's body. Sivill had only laughed at us, his nose pointed upwards to the sky like he owned every aspect of what was going on.
     This was making me think. Every time I ever told a story to Ogillitiy, my villains seemed almost lackluster to the ones that were coming from the pages right now. I made orcs and demons the bad guys, going after princesses as they were locked away in tall towers that seemed to collapse on touch. These hands that ripped at the ground were much more terrifying. And real. The fear from an elongated hand felt so much worse than any fear of an orc or demon.
     My legs were starting to hurt. I didn't blame myself for that since my age had a part to play in all of it, but then again what was I going to do. They could get Ogillitiy's book. I wouldn't dare let him.
     Sobollum started throwing half-baked potions at them, making them fall apart into millions of pieces until the shadow started to come together again. He was having an even worse time than all of us with his potions slowly running out and his face slowly becoming more and more worried.
     "Read from the book."
     The voice was loud in my left ear. I almost stopped, but the hands weren't slowing down.
     "Dad, you have to read from the book. Read something that I said."
     Ogillitiy. I stared down to his body for a moment. There was nothing happening to him, not a movement in his arms or legs, but there was no mistaking that it was Ogillitiy's sultry voice.
     "Where?" I shouted out loud.
     "The words are always in the beginning. They'll listen to me. Trust me."
     My fingers flipped to a random page, the beginning of a chapter called 'Concrete'. My feet slowed, and my voice started to ring through again.