The Stories

There was a story developing in her mind, unfolding as flowers do. But she couldn't quite reach it. The blossoming bulb of her subconscious swept in front of her, taunting her. The puzzles and characters lingered but moments and then vanished. How frustratingly horrible it was! Her own imagination playing tricks on her. And how ironic: that she'd concluded herself the writer, the authoress, the inventor of the stories, when all the time (she realised) the stories didn't just captivate and entrance the reader (as intended) but they also manipulated her, their creator, so that she too felt their pain, their anguish, their joy, their love, their conquests. Flailing emotions just waiting to be held. The readers she manipulated to feeling the stories. But the stories manipulated her into riding them too.