Author's Note

Chapter 2

I didn't say anything after that. Dream or not, it just seemed so bizarre to be meeting your own fictional character, to have him walking there next to me, that I didn't really know what to say or think. He didn't say anything either; introductions were done, instead we walked together in silence to wherever he was taking me.

Was I dreaming what I'd written earlier then? I remembered it: Thomas had gone up to check what was infesting the remains of the town, he'd run into a spider, been chased just as we had. I remembered everything. I remembered why the plants were so huge, why the animals were so terrifying. I remembered what had caused it all, and the repercussions of such a thing, and I remembered the state that humanity had been forced into.

This was my book.

What an odd thought. Do other authors dream of their worlds? Because this was something else. This was so amazing, so utterly realistic that it was genuinely difficult to believe it was a dream. Usually, with dreams, you can tell they aren't real, you can sort of feel that you're still asleep.

That notion wasn't there. I kept forgetting it was fictional, and if it weren't for the surrealism of my surroundings then I don't think I would have realised.

I glanced up at Thomas. He was exactly, exactly how I imagined him. A few moles dotted his skin; he was pale, he was tall, and he was there. A few inches away from me, walking by my side.

"The others," he'd said. We were going to meet the others. My other characters. I shuddered slightly at the thought. What if they didn't like me? What if my own characters didn't like me? I mean, I know it's not that big of a deal, but it absolutely feels like one. Imagine creating life and then having it look at you and think "god, what an asshole." It was exciting, though; I'd get to see them, hear them, see the way they acted, hear the way they talked. Thomas was already slightly blowing my mind; I hadn't ever been able to actually imagine how his voice would sound or how charming his grin was, or even what he'd physically look like and how he'd hold himself. His voice was amazing, perfect, it suited him brilliantly, exactly how I had planned his character. I had yet to see the grin, though I was sure it'd be as sparkling as I had pictured it.

Soon, I would be able to see the others. Hear them, talk with them. But I began to panic, I almost wanted to turn back because I am absolutely not an outgoing person and I really do not like meeting new people, while at the same time I wanted to know as I'm sure is relatively understandable, see them just like I'd seen Thomas.

Whoops, as soon as I'd been beginning to have those thoughts, it turned out to be too late to change my mind: we were already there. I think I'd known where we were headed without really realising I knew. We were no longer in the wreckage of the town, but instead the foliage had gradually increased until it surrounded us, created a thick forest, hiding us from any predators.

Or, perhaps, hiding them.

The back of my neck prickled at the thought. I turned around and looked everywhere my eyes could reach, though nothing was there, nothing was seen. The entire place was still. Not even the leaves could rustle, the wind wasn't strong enough to move such huge masses. Once again, I felt the familiar flood of relief that only comes when you realise that you're completely and utterly safe. However, it was as brief as it was strong, washed away almost immediately by the worry of meeting new people, no matter how fictional.

I looked in front of myself. The tree that was rooted in front of me was shorter than the others, only reaching around three quarters of the other's heights, its green-blue leaves tinting the light that fell upon us. Dug into the thick bark of the trunk was something resembling a sort of door, but it was sort of... misshapen. I raised my eyebrows at it, curious as to where it lead, and then tore my eyes away and examined the rest of this oh-so-mythical tree. Embedded in the trunk was a ladder. It had been carved into it, and, by the looks of it, roughly and quickly. Time had clearly not been spent on making it look pretty. None of the steps were exactly parallel, nor were any of them the same thickness. Thomas seemed to read my thoughts, he looked at the shabby steps sheepishly.