Author

Fae Varriale "Wonderlands", LEA 6 2012

“He is the author,” everyone pointed at the short bald woman with a wart on her nose.

The president of the Warped Organization walked towards her and stretched out his arm, wanting to shake the short woman’s hand, but she did not move. She stood to one side of the room, leaning against the wall, trying to look relaxed in a very discomforting situation for her. She hated crowds.

“We would like to congratulate you on your prize. You have written an inspiring book that will empower many to build their own virtual realities,” the president said enthusiastically.

The woman shook her head. The crowd sneered.

“See these people, “she started. “They will never be anything else but petty, small-minded and selfish.”

The crowd protested in a cacophony of angry comments.

“They’ll always look at me and think to themselves, look at that ridiculously short, bald woman with a wart on her nose. They will never be inspired to do anything wonderful, let alone to create their own virtual realities. And they need to, desperately. Look, that one is fat. That one is crippled. The one next to him is so tall his trousers are too short for him. And I could go on and find something about each and every one of them. They will be forever lost in a poor, boring reality of problems like being jobless, having no money, no house to live in, no food, being ill.”

The crowd was growing restless.

“Simpletons, they are simpletons. They have no ambitions, no dreams. Their intellectual landscape is as dry as the worst desert on the surface of this Earth.”

“But surely, dear madam, you think that your book will plow new ground for new futures,” the president mumbled, more weary of the crowd’s reaction than interested in reasoning with the author.

“No. They are dead.”

That’s it. The crowd had reached its limit. Some people threw stones at the woman, others threw umbrellas and personal belongings, some of the men in the front row ran towards the stage, their fists ready to hit.

Before anything tragic could happen, the author clicked what looked like a tattoo on her arm and, much to everyone’s amazement including the intellectually illuminated president of the Warped Association, the author disappeared into thin air.

A voice was heard, while the virtual transportation was being completed.

“Try to catch me now.”

One of the men from the crowd still managed to catch a glimpse of a tall blond woman with blue eyes vanishing into some unknown virtual world.

Even authors cannot resist a cliché…

Writer's Dash