Chapter 1: Prologue
His fingers dawdled against the soft cottony land he lay himself flatly on. The air evaporated from it once his fingers came in contact; he swiftly slashed through it with his finger like a knife on cake. He sighed and closed his eyes boredom consumed his mind as he carelessly threw his book and his quill down from the cloud he lay in.
'1.' He stood up.
'2.' He neared the edge.
'3.' He fell down. Down. Down. Down, till his feet landed in a pond of air, safe and content of the sudden adrenaline. He then walked idly towards an open door separated from the land he walked on by a moat. He looked down at the edge of the water and a pair of eyes popped out and looked back at him. He blinked and the pair of eyes raised higher and revealed an huge and slimy alligator. The man looked ahead and stepped on the alligator, making it his path towards the door.
His hands neared the knob, without intention of opening it with his own fingers, the door read his mind and toppled down the opposite side of the man, showing an enormous room of books, paintings and more books.
He walked straight and after two book shelves turned right to a book shelf that had a crest carved roughly on its side and the shelf opposite that had a much better design of the crest. He went towards the direction of the rough-crested book shelf, hissing lowly at the other and picked the slimmest book. He opened it and soothed his finger against the sleek surface of the only page of the book...
In this world we dwell on, lives are written on parchment and are carefully crafted on by a quill of no withdrawal. Every sentence is put to it's time. The parchment of a person's life is in a deep relationship with the Writer. Thoughts hidden within the Writer are expressed into event by the parchment with a powerful force called destiny and fate.
Writers are as what they seem. They are immortal beings, born to continue life's prodigies by making their stories. Generation to generation every story… err -person's story -is acknowledged by humans at some point.
Just like in publishing companies, Writers are assisted by a staff that makes sure the stories go as planned by the writer. These assistants come in any number the writer desires. They are called Watchers.
Just like in this world we dwell on, there is law. There are people chosen to enforce the law. But there, policemen are called Trackers. The only unjust part of their system is the fact that they only serve the Writers, like Watchers serve the Writers. But the utterly obvious difference is, Trackers hunt rouge Watchers.
'The most boring book in the history of boring books has at last come to my unwilling attention' he smirked.
'Let's see...' he scanned his surroundings.
'Where'd you go, Qui? Park?' he asked himself.
He went hurriedly out of the room, stepped over the toppled door, brisked on the reptile's head and stared towards it. The door re-built itself, looking better than ever, and the alligator hid himself in the shallow water once again. He then nuged at the air with his elbow and had his Superman pose on as he zoomed back up to the cloud, finding his quill (Qui) and his parchment (Park) waiting for him.
'And from this point on our story continues...' he declared, his inspiration clinging in the back of his mind as he scribbled endlessly on the paper.