While writing from a picture prompt, the character speaks for itself, its gecko-like tenacity on display. The writer disappears, as does the writing, only the voice of the character remains.
I hate pink. Pink is a labial color and as everyone knows, I hate women. Correction, everyone does not know, not yet, because the She, the one who has created me, is scared to let me loose upon the world.
I’m born in her mind, not her womb, so I’m not sure what the She is scared of. Not as if I could step out from my world into hers, and create lies, murder, mayhem, blood splatters. I could do it in my world, but for that, my world needs to be made, a world that lives in words.
The She better make it, and soon, for her own good, because she does not know the rules of my world…the longer its germ is allowed to languish, the stronger it becomes , because darkness is its rightful realm. I am its ruler, so my strength grows with it each day. I now manage to break out some days, and shred the pink tissue the She uses to keep her handbags cosy, or make the She hate her best friend, because of that woman’s girlish ways.
The fact that you all can hear me means that the She has lost control: she better write me down, give me my world, my crime and my punishment or I swear I will possess her one of these days, and never let her go.
And if my threats don’t work, tell her, gentle reader, I do not hate the She, though she is a woman, tell her to give me my words, my world. I’ll go away, never return. Maybe.