| reader's choice. |

The moon shines imperiously upon the stone edged mansion. In the depths of the shadows within, mumblings echo through the dark hallway.
“Shh, quieter. They’re listening.”
“No one can hear us.”
The light emanating from the small room seeps under the doorway into the hall, giving the carpet a blazing red hue.
“It makes me uncomfortable, talking about this, especially just sitting out here in the open.”
“We can’t just sit here and let this happen! You don’t understand the enormity of this situation.”
The room is like a furnace, the closed door sealing in the heat from the fire. The stone walls are hot to the touch. The bookcases filled to the brim with leather-bound mysteries are tempting, the stories trapped inside begging to be read.
“Now listen. We -”
“Shh! I heard something.”
The old wood floors creak as weight is shifted on the long velvet couch.
"There are so many rooms."
The diamonds hanging from the ornate chandelier clink together and the bell-like sound echos through the hollow room.
"Can you please listen for once? We're never going to get this done if you keep blabbering on about imaginary eavesdroppers."
"I'm sorry."
Yellowed parchment is pulled from a pocket. The hands holding it are careful not to tear it as they unfold the old paper. The creases are smoothed out carefully. An intricate painting of a book covers the stiff papyrus. Bound in red leather, its gold painted pages seem to glimmer in the firelight. A belt of a matching color is painted tightly around the cover, holding the pages tightly together. Each brush stroke seemed to contain a thousand different secrets.
“This is what we are here - well, were here - to protect.”
“Were?”
“This book - It has been stolen. And now our lives are in danger.”
The large room goes completely silent. The fire seems to pause, flames licking the logs and never turning them to ash. The heavy gray curtains cover the dusty windows, muting all noise from the forest just outside. Even the person they are so sure is listening to them is completely silent. The silence seems sacred, and the painting looks miniscule compared to the high ceilings and long walls that form the room it’s in.
“What do you mean?”
The voice wobbles, fear finally coming out of hiding. Eyes dart to the bookcases, the empty spot now glaringly obvious.
“That book -”
Hesitation.
"That book was never supposed to be touched. Never supposed to be opened. It tells the story of right now. As I am speaking these words to you, they are being written on the pages of this book.”
A finger stabs at the painting.
“And what do you think happens when whomever is in possession of our story closes the book?”
“The story ends?”
“And what do you think happens when the story ends?”
“We… die?”
The voice is questioning, not wanting to believe it.
“Exactly. Which is why we have to find who stole this book and get it back before they reach the end. And we will do whatever it takes.”
The family crest hangs above the fireplace, two swords stabbed through it to form an ‘x’. They shine menacingly. The heat in the room seems to grow ten degrees. Beads of sweat form on the foreheads of those in the room. Thunder booms outside and the sound reverberates through the mansion, the figures on the couch jumping in fright.
"You see that man?"
Attention turns to a large painting above the bookcases. It depicts a man, wrinkled and scowling. His piercing blue eyes seem to tear through the two figures. They shrink down, intimidated by the inanimate lord.
"He lived here, right? Isn't that Lord Montparnasse?"
"Yes. He used to be the richest man in the land. He controlled everything. But he left, and he took nothing."
"Why?"
"So many questions."
There is a pause. Rain squeezes through a small crack in the high ceiling, splattering onto the floor and turning the dusty wood a dark maroon.
"He abandoned his entire fortune; his entire way of living, for love. He met a young woman, a beautiful chambermaid, and he fell in love with her. She hated his shallow way of thinking and how heavily he relied on money, so she refused to marry him. To prove that he truly cared about her, he sold his mansion, gave away his fortune, and bought a small cottage way off on the other side of the land."
The figure motions towards the south.
"Anyway, he and his new wife had a surreal first few years of marriage. The lord had no worries, and he even had a young daughter. He was running a successful bookshop, and was able to support his little family. But then he remembered this."
Another jab at the yellowed parchment.
"He remembered how powerful it was, and how he was foolish to leave it behind. Of course, the book was no longer his property."
"Wait - you think that he's the thief?"
"I know he's the thief. I know he broke in and stole it."
"How do you know?"
"I was his valet. I was with him constantly. I know his mind; I know the way he thinks and what he does when he wants something.”
"So how do we find him?"
"That's the tricky part; finding Lord Montparnasse won't necessarily lead us to the book. I'm almost positive he sold the book to an unknowing reader, to protect it. The one who now possesses the book has no idea that they are now apart of the book's story. A tale that will only last as long as they keep reading and never shut the book."
"So this person could be anywhere, they could be anyone."
"Precisely. But if we find the thief, we need only ask whom he sold it to."
"Do you know where he is?"
"I have an idea, yes."
"Well where do we find him? If what you tell me about the book is true, we can't waste any time."
"Like I said, the lord owns a bookshop in town. He's constantly there, for he has no reason to be home. His wife and daughter died in a horrible fire four years ago. He practically lives at the bookshop. He sends all his workers home and closes the shop at the same time every night. If we leave now we can get to him before he leaves for home."

Across town an old man slowly turns the sign on the bookshop door to face the deserted cobblestone streets. "CLOSED," the sign shouts in large black script. Limping slightly, he goes to the counter and drags out the box of money to count the day's profits. The street outside is silent except for the tinkling of delicate raindrops. Two girls skip arm-in-arm, their black shoes clapping against the dull stone street as their mother calls for them. The man's face sags when he hears the girls' laughter, remembering his own bright-eyed little girl. He tries to think about the task at hand, willing his mind not to travel to that fateful day.
How was he to know a log had fallen out of the fire? How was he to know his wife had been re-stuffing the straw mattresses? It wasn't his fault. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to believe it.
It wasn't my fault.
Even after four years, the guilt he has carried since he found out about their deaths hasn't gone away. If anything, it has grown heavier.
He is old and worn out. His loyal customers will often compare him to the wrinkled pages of a well loved book, passed from reader to reader.
He hears creaking on the wood floors from the back room and he stops with a bill in each hand, his weak ears straining to hear.
Another creak.
His heart begins to race. His eyes quickly flash to the front door, measuring the distance from the counter.
He'd never make it.
His eyes flicker back to the passage that leads to the storage room. As shadows from the doorway grow larger, the man croaks, "I know what you're looking for and it's not here."
"I know."
"Th-then why have you come?"
His voice shakes. He tries to appear confident, but his old body refuses to stand up straight.
"We need to know who you sold it to."
"I won't tell you; you don't deserve to have the book. It was meant to be read, not hidden away where no one will ever know what happens to us."
"What about what will happen to us when the reader closes the book?"
A second voice echoes through the empty shop, the body it belongs to still hidden.
"Don't you care what happens then?"
"I have lived much longer than you and I am ready for what comes next."
"And us? Do you not care that we are in danger of the same fate as you if the book is closed?"
"Anyone who has held his destiny in his own hands for as long as you have deserves what comes to him."
The taller of the two hidden figures slowly steps into the middle of the compact room, casting a shadow over the former-lord's face.
A menacing glare widens the already terrified eyes of the bookkeeper.
"Who did you sell the book to?"
The voice is laced with poison.
"I won't tell you."
The man's voice sounds brave, but his body shakes uncontrollably as the figure approaches him, grabbing his arms and pushing him against the bookshelf behind the counter. A carefully placed pile of leather-bound classics topple to the floor.
The crowded room again decreases in size when the second voice finally shows itself.
"You can't hurt him!"
"Don’t you want to live?"
The voice is now panicked.
"Yes, but-"
"But nothing! This is the only way!"
A knife is suddenly in the hand of the figure holding the old man captive. His heart increases in speed, threatening to lurch out of his chest and onto the books scattered on the floor.
"You can't!"
The man gives a silent prayer of thanks to this second figure pleading for his life to be spared.
"Shut up!"
The glittering eyes turn back to the old man, who shrinks against the rough wall of his beloved bookshop.
"I will ask you one more time. Who has the book?"
"I-I don't know who it was!" The man's voice cracks, tears pushing their way into his ice-blue eyes. "I had never seen them before!"
"Useless!"
The knife is pulled back, moonlight reflecting off of the silver blade and casting opaque streams of light around the room.
Lord Montparnasse takes a final breath as the knife plunges into his gut, blood soaking his favorite literary masterpieces to the core.
He drops to the floor, blood spilling from his stomach and forming a puddle of dark scarlet liquid that shimmers in the light reflected from the no-longer spotless dagger.
Only silence reverberates between the figures as they make their way down the cobblestone streets, rain darkening their clothes and smudging the ink carefully etched onto the pages of the record book, containing every sale Lord Montparnasse had made.

A howl echoes through the forest as the figures hurriedly run through the dead leaves carpeting the ground.
“We don’t have much time. The end is approaching.”
“The mansion is right up here, come on!”
They tear through the heavy doors, dirt splattering the blood-red carpet. Upon reaching their destination, the knife falls out of a pocket and clatters to the wood floor, the blood of Lord Montparnasse seeping into the wood floors of his beloved mansion.
The records are thrown hastily on the table in front of the couch and yellowed pages are torn as the figures rush to find the most recent entry.
“Stop! Stop! You’re ripping the book!”
“These entries don’t matter!”
The voices are loud and rushed, panicked.
“Here!”
A finger taps the bottom of a page.
“Sold: the book.. Date: Jan. 5, 1582. Buyer: ----.”
“NO!”
Cries of anguish bounce off the high ceiling.
“How is there not a name?”
“We don’t have much time left!”
“What are we supposed to do now?”
“We killed that poor man for nothing.”
The sorrow is palpable.
The fire erupts, the flames growing ten times in size as the record book is forcefully thrown into the red-hot tendrils. The records Lord Montparnasse painstakingly inked onto the creamy parchment turn to ash.
“Wait!”
Desperate excitement bubbles from the voice of the smaller figure.
“What? Don’t you get it? Our lives are over! The end is just around the corner.”
“No! We can save ourselves! Didn’t you say that the words we are saying are appearing on the pages of the book as whomever has it is reading them?”
The distraught figure nods.
“Why don’t we just talk to the reader?”
Again, the night seems to halt at the profound words.
“You..you might actually be on to something.”
The rain ceases and the moon shines bright through the faded stained glass windows, a personification of the hope bursting from the two figures on the dusty couch.
“I’m not sure what we would say, or how we would go about it….”
“Don’t worry about that. You’re our savior right now. Because of you, we might actually have a chance at keeping our lives.”
“Okay, so...do we start?”
The figures stand up and turn their heads toward the arched ceiling as if they were praying.

“Hello?”

You must listen to me. You are in grave danger.

"We don't want to hurt you, we just need that book you're holding."

Please protect me. I don't want to go back to them. You treat me well. The way you hold me, turn my pages, it's almost as if you care about me.
I never talk to my readers. But you’re different. I can tell. I trust you.

"That book is precious to us. It's very powerful, and we have been looking for it for a long time."
"You know where we are. You've been following our story for awhile, now. You know exactly where to go."

You have to shut the book. You have to end the story.

"Come to Lord Montparnasse's bookshop. As soon as you can. We'll be there."
"We will give you a generous reward if you bring us what is ours."

You can't go to that bookshop. Stay where you are. I'm not theirs. I'm everyone's. I'm yours. I wish I could protect you. I'm just a book.

"You've grown to love us, haven't you? If you shut that book, we die!"

Shut it. Oh, please, shut it. They are far more dangerous than you know. So very dangerous. You're their target. They want to kill you. I promise you, if you don't kill them, they will kill you.

"You can live here. This mansion can be your home."

We can start over, you and I. Create new characters, live new lives. But you must end these lives, first.

"We won't hurt you!"

You have a choice. I'm begging you, make the right one.

| selfish. |

I smile at strangers
She stays in her room

I sacrifice what I have
She demands more

I deserve it - don't I?
Or is my desire for what she has
overriding my good deeds?

I live a perfect life while she lives one
full of malice.

I think she doesn't deserve what
she has,
but I am wrong.

I don't know her story
I don't know her pain
We are the same, and if
I say I deserve it
that means she does, too.

(maybe even more)

| starry night. |

a poem

The sun disappears over the hills and suddenly
the world is dark. But still there is light - looking up I see
millions of bright lights, twisting and turning and blinking,
shouting to the world that they will not be ignored.

The impenetrable darkness that seemed so big and terrifying before it
occurred now seems small and timid - nothing compared to the jewels I am
reaching out to hold.
Each sparkling light hung so delicately in the vast sky is brighter than the
darkness is black, and that gives me hope.

Did Van Gogh see this when he painted Starry Night?
Did he understand that the light and the darkness go hand in hand?
He had a sadness that only a handful of people feel.
I hope, with every brushstroke, Vincent added more light than he saw.

As I stand, looking up at the night sky, the night doesn't
seem scary anymore.
The stars wink at me, letting me know that everything will be alright.
I close my eyes and I can still see them - their light
so encompassing that it doesn't even seem dark anymore.

Vincent saw what others could not - the light in the dark,
the good in the bad. He had no happiness, so he painted
his own. He took the light out of the sky and put it on a
dusty canvas so he could give it to everyone who
could not see the good.
The saddest man tried his best to make others
happy.

I open my eyes once more. The sun is beginning
to rise. The black night is fading away, as are
the lights.
But not really.
I think of Van Gogh, and I think of this:

When you feel like the world is dark and there is no hope,
you need only look up
and see the stars.

| a chrysanthemum. |

She collapsed on her bed, a cloud of gray encompassing her frail figure. There were too many problems, too many demands, too many things she had to do just to survive. Tears stained her white duvet a light gray - mimicking what she felt inside of her soul.

A slight tapping sounded from her window.

She struggled to lift her head and glanced out the window. Her gaunt face was streaked with tears and her eyes were swollen - she was in no position to see anyone. That being said, however, she still hoisted herself off of her bed and, with great difficulty, made her way over to the window.

A boy stood on the other end - one she'd never seen before. He motioned for her to open the window, and she did.

She did because he had the same look in his eyes that she'd seen reflected in her own eyes every morning when she looked in the mirror.

"Who are you?" she asked, her voice thick with tears.

"I'm someone who understands," he said, his clear voice calming her down. "I just wanted to tell you to keep fighting, okay?" He reached out a pale hand and cupped her face. The pad of his thumb brushed over her cheek.

"I don't think I can anymore," she said, softly.

"Everything will mend itself. I promise," he whispered. He grabbed her hand and pressed something into it, smiled at her, and bolted away from the window.

The girl glanced at her hand.

He had given her a flower - a chrysanthemum.

Long life.

| intro. |

Let's start at the beginning.

I like to write stories.

I have nowhere to put said stories but on a Google document.

No one gets to see said stories.

Today, I logged into my old BlogSpot account and decided: I want people to read my stories.

You are those people.

Princesses Write is a place where I will write (relatively) short stories and post them for others' enjoyment. (I hope you enjoy them.)

Whenever I have an idea of a story, dialogue, or even a play, I'll post it here.

If you have something to say or request, please do! I love a good comment.

This blog is completely safe for work. (no requesting otherwise.)

I'm excited to see where this goes! I hope you are, too.

-c

p.s. feel free to follow @princessesread on instagram!