The man guided the writer down the cavern, weaving between the clumps of words.
‘But mine is so huge,’ the Writer said, glancing back at the big Doubt Beast following them. ‘I can’t seem to do anything that stops it much at all. And I’ve never seen it shrink.’
They approached a tunnel opening...
It took a while to find another string of words. Side tunnels began splitting off left and right, but the Writer liked the glittering tunnel, and stayed on it.
She saw words ahead. Fear squeezed her insides as she tried not to think about what the beast would do. It’s footsteps sped up as she...
Words.
She was here for the words. What was she doing, sitting against the wall, knitting and sleeping?
She put a hand down to push herself up. The ground felt soft, almost spongy. Furry to, like some sort of animal. But nothing lived inside the Story Warren. Just the words.
She tried to sit...
On the grass, under the sunshine of the real world, the Writer watched the dark entrance to the Story Warren. Night spilling from its opening, a dark blot on the hillside. The entrance to another world. To all the other worlds: the Story Warren was where the words came from, and words could do...