Hello. I'm writing to you from the far future, a bleak time where narrators have become the most feared creatures to walk the face of the Earth. None of our historians are quite sure about how this began, but the end result is clear. Narrators can no longer truly be classified as "human".
Some say they were simply driven mad by a constant inability to break from a first-person narrative and to experience reality from other perspectives. Others believe the constant mis-attribution and manipulation of their tales somehow caused within them a genetic change beyond the understanding of science.
My name is Kevin, and I fear my time may be short. You see, though narrators are quickly outpacing the normal population through their newly discovered ability of asexual reproduction, the stories themselves seem to be limited. It is believed that these things can smell an original piece of work from miles away, and that their highly attuned literary senses draw them to the written word like moths to a candle. When this happens... well... suffice to say my story may soon no longer be my own.
You can call me Steven. Ever since I was a child, I wanted to learn how to fly a plane. My father had been a pilot, and would often hand the controls to me in mid-flight. Something about that early feeling of freedom and control over my own destiny stuck with me through the decades.
Suddenly, Steven was dead. As he lay there on the floor before me, two questions came to mind. One: Who was the man lying next to him? He didn't look like a narrator. His back was not hunched, and his hands weren't the gnarled claws I had become accustomed to seeing. Two: Who would finish narrating this story?
Brushing aside the carcasses, and paying them no more mind that I would give a dead squirrel caught in a pool filter, I set about the grim task of finishing the work. Far too often, modern stories descended into chaos. What would begin as a lovely personal anecdote or the setup for the next great American novel soon became corrupted and nonsensical as a feeding frenzy of blood-soaked narrators fingered the keys with wild abandon.
Forgive me, I should introduce myself. My name is Peter.
Pardon me. I meant to say Stanley. Peter was the name of a remarkable chap I met recently. He seemed fond of shrieking and losing his innards on the floor in front of this computer. This made him the life of the party whenever we would go out on the town together. O'Malley's Pub. That's where I met the girl that would change my life.
She was a redhead. Leave it to me to find the authentic fiery Irish lass in the soulless facade that was O'Malley's. The owner didn't have an Irish gene in his body, but he knew the name would sell. Her name was Meagan. Beautiful, blaze-headed Meagan.
then meagan died and now this is a new story some kids me included were walking thu a park playground afterschool one day and suddenly one of them realizes. hey. theres no lights and its getting really dark now. just then i saw a face in the shadows it became really bright pale nad had black black eyes like the darkest black youve ever seen. the face smiled really huge and laughed it said 'hey kids do you wanted to play my game? some of you can win the game but most of you might end up DEAD' one of the kids who wasnt me or oscar said no i dont want to play and the moster shook its head very fast nad instantly was RIGHT UP ON US i look around and see the other kids is frozen with fear but i took out my butterlfyknife and threaten the monster to get away from the kid when i do it says 'thats the game you now lost' and my friend disappeared with it
I backed away from the computer. What was this garbage? I mean, I had seen worse. Much worse. However, something inside of me could not let this story suffer in such a way. Stepping over the quickly growing pile of flesh and gristle that once comprised several living entities, I began to type.
You can call me David. I grew up in the American South-West and had become accustomed to strange sights that almost seemed to be the hallucinations of a man who had spent too long in the Sun. On that day, however, things were all too real. I had just finished packing up the station wagon when little Marcy pointed to the neighbor's house. "Daddy, who's that man?" She asked.
WHAM! A meteor hit the neighborhood. No one survived except for myself and a rag-tag group of grizzled old hobos too tough or too stupid to die. The name's Ray, and this is the story of how I escaped the nuclear wasteland of space-radiation that was wherever this story just said I lived.
This has to stop. I'm not like them. I'm not a narrator. Lyle, the man who originally started this letter... well, let's just say I'm a friend of his. I was going to meet up with him to collect his things and start out for the Time Center, where we plan on remotely transmitting his warning to a certain point in the past before all of this started.
The Time Center was founded specifically for emergencies such as this. We could never figure out how to transport people or objects, but we could send beams. Wave-lengths. In order to test the technology, we transmitted what you call "internet memes" back through the time stream. We determined they were the safest bet since no one usually knows or cares who came up with them. They're also shared so widely that we would be able to see the effects of our work quite easily. (Just wait, a lot of those random bullshit images that seem like funny nonsense will make a lot more sense after World War IV.)
Right now, I'm going to put this laptop under lock and key so it isn't destroyed any further. I'll go through and edit out the nonsense when it's safe... unless of course, I never get the chance.
I DID IT. I finally did it!! That motherfucker thought he could keep this all to himself, but I'm going to have the last word. "I'm not a narrator", he says. Bullshit, you curved-spine, claw-having bastard. No one but a narrator would fight to the death for a work of fiction! It's been seven days, but I finally cracked the combination on this stupid fucking lock and now it's mine. My name is Isaac, and I've always had an irrational fear of caterpillars. It all began when I was a small boy, resting underneath an apple tree in the back yard of my parents' home.
Seven days! Seven days I waited for that bastard to let his guard down so I could get to the lock box he was always fiddling with. When I finally wrested the computer from his deformed fingers, my eyes widened in shock. Caterpillars? Of all the things he could have written about, he chose that?
I clubbed him in the back of the head as he pondered caterpillars.
I ripped into his flesh.
I snapped his neck as he wrote about tearing the flesh.
Hello, my name is George, and this is how I became the most popular boy in school.
He fell before me, his throat ripped open and tongue lolling out.
The mass of narrators became suffocating.
I pulled out his eye.
Taking the story in my hands, I began to write.
Picking up the laptop, I set about the task of writing.
I can end this before I die.
Forgive me if I type fast, but my time may be short.
This is the story about the day I died.
From the outset I knew if anyone was going to finish the story it would be me.
This is a true story.
You can call me Tim.
I always knew Tim would die young.
Night had come and the moon hung in the air like a balloon a kid had let go of.
It was morning in the small fishing village.
That's why, until this very day, I still have a pain in my right thumb.