Alice was a normal girl. Alice had two parents, lived in a middle class home, went to a good school and had many friends.
Unfortunately for Alice, due the cruel machinations of the writer, she unfortunately had to come to the realization that she, her friends, her home, her parents, all of humanity and the universe they lived in were just a tool to tell the story of Alice.
Alice was not happy.
After all, why should Alice be the one who was burdened with this knowledge, out of all the people in the world? The writer must be a terrible one if they picked someone so boring.
She was not wrong.
Thus Alice began her journey, it was filled with terror and strife, fire spewed from the ground, the earth shook around her!
And then it didn’t.
As Alice had quickly learned, the writer could do whatever he wished, thus the cataclysm that had erupted just a second before was forgotten by everyone.
Everyone but Alice.
So she began her actual journey, to try to convince everyone around her that the terrible knowledge she held was true. That their entire universe was just some ploy of a writer, to tell the story of her trying to do exactly that. Alice did realize that she was doing this because the writer told her to do it, that she couldn’t do anything without his permission, and that she was following his exact word, but she did not care.
Because she was Alice.
Alice’s lot did not improve though. Despite her best efforts, nobody, from her most trusted friends to her parents would believe it. Alice could only blame the writer for this, as they controlled whether she was believed or not. They would never believe.
Alice hated the writer, with a burning passion.
Though how she could hate such a glorious human being, imbued with all the skill of every writer in existence, from Shakespeare to Plato, is beyond me, and of course, herself.
Alice now loves the writer. Still hate’s him though.
Unfortunately Alice was fully aware that her time was at an end. That her universe would cease to exist. The writer was done with the story, and she was as well.
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Thomas J. Danforth was a rather average man. Living a somewhat lonely life in a small house, making a meagre salary, one of the few out’s he found in his life was writing, a task he was not good at, but enjoyed greatly. Having finished a rather ridiculous story about a girl named Alice, he was burdened with the seemingly ridiculous knowledge that he, everyone he knew, his entire universe, was a story, and that it would cease to exist upon its completion.
But he simply sighed and gave up, for he knew where this story was going already.
