Emira does not want to be in this story.
She is tired and, quite frankly, she is sick of this second-rate, awful writer who pulled her out to be a character in this story. No, she just wants to go back into the dark, empty void where she had been floating in peace.
Emira growled and hissed at the empty page beneath her as she STOMPED and P o U n C e D through it. “This is such a stupid story,” she thought, “Boring.” She kept walking on the blank page until she reached the edge. Lying down flat on her stomach, Emira peeked over the edge of the page. She was stunned to see pages upon pages messily stacked under her, with words scribbled and peering out of them in neat typewritten font.
Emira stood up and looked back at her spotlessly white page with narrowed eyes. Her face twisted in an ugly scowl, the tips of her brown hair turning red with anger.
“Hey, you! Why does every other page have a story but not mine? Where is my story?” She STOMPED her foot again, balling up her hands in fists. “Where is my story?!” She kept stomping across the page, her footprints getting embedded on the page, all the time yelling and shrieking, “WHERE is my story?!”
In the end, after a good half an hour, Emira sank down in the middle of the page, and with her face hidden in her hands, she began to cry in loud sobs.
Am I not good enough for a story? Why not? Why does everyone else have a story except me?
Emira slowly wiped her tears away and began walking towards a castle, her golden hair flowing in the wind-
“NO!” Emira roared. Her feet were moving, and the wind was lifting her hair. In front of her was a huge pink castle. “Stop that! My hair is brown, not golden!” she said, frantically combing through her hair, which was now turning golden. And I am NOT walking to your stupid castle!”
Emira turned around and ran back to the edge of the page at the bottom.
With one hand on her hip, she looked up and pointed to the sky, “I don’t want to be in YOUR story. I am done. YOU are not writing my story. I am. So, shut up and listen.”
Emira turned back around, chin in the air, and smiled.
She decided she had soft brown hair that waved past her shoulders, she wore a flowy red top and dirty sky-blue jeans that were rolled up around her ankles.
And she had a black ribbon in her pocket. Yes, there would be a black ribbon for emergencies.
And then Emira decided, taking a step with bubbling excitement and a grin building on her face, that her story waited for her out there.
And she ran right off the page—
