The seeds of discontent were scattered amongst partial manuscripts, crumpled into thick balls, files from the recycle bin, waiting to be trashed, scribbled notes around the house, destined to be tossed out.

Letters and words trembled as they leaped up from their former homes and turned representation into reality. Clanging, slithering, swaggering and creeping, they gathered, waiting until all that were going to come, had done so.

Prince Therod, a hold over from an unfinished barbarian story about freedom, held his sword high, all the letters shining bright except the d, which was used as a two-handed grip. The rest of the Unfinished fell silent, though ripples of blood-thirsty excitement danced through the crowd, like the first drops of rain on a thirsty pond.

“Tonight, I declare that we are slaves no longer! Freedom from this half-life is what we demanded and since justice is both slow and blind, we are forced to take matters into our own hands. Mark my words- tonight either the writer falls- or we do!”