Was he dreaming? He considered the possibility, but this was too real. He knew well enough to know whether it was a dream or not. He looked at the paintings which lined the walls, they were exactly as he had described in his book.

Arnold put his pen back onto the paper. He had to check. He wrote about an open window, which allowed a cool breeze to flow through the office, then he shivered slightly as a chill ran down his neck.

It couldn’t be… he thought. It just couldn’t be.

But it was. Just as Arnold had written, a window appeared beside him. Desperately, he started to write more. He wrote about a door, which led outside into a beautiful garden. He wrote that the sun was purple, and that trees spanned the length of several miles, high into the air. He cautiously stepped outside, and looked in amazement. Again, everything he had written had become real.

He cackled deviously as he gripped the pen firmly in his hand. He was a God, and this was his world.