As an author I write many stories, and in my stories I write about people's lives. Even though they are fictional, doesn't mean that they aren't the most important people in my life. 

My story: A lone girl sits at the edge of a windswept playground. Crispy autumn leave blow around her, swirling into clouds of orange and red. The girl ignores the leaves like the others around her, but she still snuggles into her dark blue sweater. In her gloved hands, she holds 2 things. Not the phone or ear piece . Or even a game console or a toy. The girl holds a notebook. Dark blue, covered in a thick blue fabric, the girl clutches it in her frozen hands. Unlike the other children, she does not swipe at the screen, hoping to unlock the next level to a game. However, she holds something better, more deadly. Wrapped in her fingers is something the girl uses to weave the tapestry of life－a pen. Blue ink drips onto each page as the girl scribbles away in unintelligible handwriting, her nose pressed against the paper. 

As an author, I write many stories. However, as the reader, do not be too freaked out when the stories I write hit to close to home, for we live in a world full of magic. Regardless whether you believe in it or not, magic will find it's way to you, it can even turn up in the most unexpected places. Beware reader, for you have been warned, just like the girl. She disregarded the warning I gave, but will you? And yes, she is the very girl typing these words onto the computer. Alas, the girl is me.