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nickjonson

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After school I came into my room, closed the door behind me, and sat on my bed. My mind began to race, what was going on? Why were all these things I've wished for coming true? Almost every single thing I wrote was becoming reality. Suddenly, I heard noises. I got up and looked around. I heard soft pitter patter and slight shuffling. I tried to find where the noise was coming from. A slight squeal came from under my bed. I looked down and gasped. At the end of my bed was what I had created in 2nd grade; a Fluzzie, as I called it. It was a ball of fuzz and hair. Two green eyes protruded from what was the face. I examined the creature, it was everything I drew and wrote it to be. I chuckled. This had to be a dream. There was no way this could be real. Creatures like this didn't just suddenly pop up. Am I hallucinating? Am I dreaming? I pinched myself, but everything was the same. It was all real. Suddenly, something caught my eye. In the corner, beneath a pile of papers, there was a slight glow. I walked over and shifted through the pile. The stories that had come true were slightly glowing. Apparently, what I had been writing was coming true. I laughed and threw the papers down. "That's crazy," I said myself. But what if it isn't? Curiosity began to arise within me. I decided to test it. I flipped through my stories and found a testable one. "Ok, this is a story where I'm on the moon," I said to myself. I closed my eyes, and heard wooshing noises around me. I opened my eyes and found myself on the moon, the text glowing. I jumped and panicked. How did I get here? I closed my eyes shut. "I wish I were back home," I whispered. I pictured my room. There was a swift woosh around me. I opened my eyes and I was in my bedroom again. I sat on my bed and Fluzzie jumped next to me and leaned up against me. "So....I have the ability to bring my words to reality," I told myself. I tested this a few times on some scratch paper. It worked. Then I remembered something, "I'm not always going to be able to write...will this work if I think the words?" I closed my eyes and pictured something I would never write. I opened my eyes and found it was true. I was in the middle of a carnival fair. Chuckling, I closed my eyes and wished myself home. I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled. "Time for that change you've always wanted," I said to myself. I imagined what I wanted to be in my mind. I opened my eyes and smiled. All my bruises were gone. My hair was slicker and a bit more tamed. My clothes were slightly tighter, and I saw that I had finally developed abs and pecs. I smiled, and my smile sparkled back in the mirror.  I closed my eyes and made another wish. With that, I flew out my window to the heavens above.

The bells of the chapel in Notre Dame rung loudly as sun rose. The high priest was in his chambers, praying. He was in his late fifties, but still strong. He had a slightly muscular build, a strong face, and bright, white hair. He opened his eyes from his trance and jumped to his feet. He took heavy breaths as he recalled his vision. He ran out the double doors to his cellar and ran to the bishop's room. He knocked the doors furiously. "What is it, Father Jacques?" the bishop asked. "Bishop Franque," Jacques gasped, "It's horrible. I've seen it, it's horrible, it's back!" Bishop Franque gave Jacques a quizzical look, "What are you talking about?" he asked. Father Jacques took a deep breath, "The Scribe of our age is here," Jacques gasped, "He has tapped his potential. It is amongst us!" Bishop Franque put his hand to his chest and took a long breath, "Lord lend us his strength," he sighed, "Where is the Scribe?" Jacques shook his head, "I did not see." Franque nodded slightly, "Very well, we wait for unearthly things to occur," he said, "No doubt the Scribe will instantly utilize his powers to his advantage. Keep your eyes and ears open to every newscast from every part of the world. The Scribe can be anywhere." Jacques bowed and ran down the hall. Franque closed the door and opened his wardrobe, taking a glance at his mirror. He was slightly on the bulky side, slightly hunched over and in his early 60s. He was balding with snow white hair, wrinkles tickled across his face, his brow casting a slight shadow over his bright blue eyes. He pushed back his clothes and pulled out a wooden box. He opened the box and pulled out a ceremonial blade. It was a simple, wooden, handle, with a flint blade. It was a knife Cortez had recovered from the Aztecs. The Aztecs used this ceremonial blade to carve open the chests of their sacrifices so they could get the heart. It was also used to execute anomalies amongst the Aztec people. Franque held the knife in his hand and examined it. The once white flint stone was now black and red with all the blood that had encased it. He sighed softly, he had not used this knife for a long time. He had always hoped he would never have to, especially after the last Scribe that walked the Earth.