Pens of the Prompters

If I can get my hands on one of the Prompters' pens, I can save Anne Servago. No one knows how the murderous pens work; I suspect the Devil himself endowed them with his power, but any story written with their black ink comes true. I wrote a story where Anne Servago dies, but I didn't realize the power of the pen until Cliff Strafford.

Cliff Strafford died yesterday. That's when the truth became clear. The Prompters gave me two prompts with specific character names, instructing me to end my stories with the character's death, which I did despite their dark nature. Cliff's story came first, then Anne's a couple of weeks later.

While researching for a future novel, an article surfaced reporting that the real-life Cliff had died exactly the way my fictional Cliff died – an impossible coincidence. He was a major player in Dallas' financial scene. I suspect a rival paid the Prompters to have him assassinated, and they used me to write his untimely death. If I had known the power of the pens, I would never have written the stories — I would have never joined.

The Prompters don't come into the office on Sundays, but it's not uncommon to find a few writers struggling to meet deadlines. I took the elevator to the 17th floor of our office building using my key. The entire floor belonged to our writer's club, it's funny now that I never thought to ask how we could afford it.

The security guard nodded as I stepped out of the elevator. My office was just down the hall, past Don's. I needed him to be there. My entire plan hinged on it. The Prompters took my pen when I finished Anne's story, but I knew Don still had his pen, because I knew Don was struggling with his story. I've been stalking him. I'd stay late and go through Don's trash after he left. I read his discarded drafts. He ran out of ideas. He's probably overworked. Longhand writers take a much longer time to write than writers who use computers.

The door to Don's office was closed, not a good sign. He usually kept it open while writing. I softly knocked, and to my surprise, a voice invited me in.

"Hey, I thought you might have taken the day off. Your door was closed." A glance around his office showed trouble. Papers lay scattered across the floor. The trash bin overflowed with balled up sheets of paper. Don held his cursed pen in one hand and ran his fingers through his hair with the other.

"I can't do this. I'm stuck. And the Prompters expect my story first thing tomorrow. I think I have writer's block. I've never had it before." Don teared up. It's not the first time I've seen him this way. He's an overemotional guy.

"Let me help you. I'm on the last page of my story. After I finish, I can work on yours, if you're okay with me taking over.

"I don't know. The Prompters won't like it. They're picky on pairing writers with prompts."

"True, but we won't tell them. Face it. You won't finish this. Do you want to face them tomorrow with no story?" He faltered with that question, and terror filled his face.

"Are you sure you can finish it today? I'm still on page one."

"I have a couple of stories already finished. I will adapt one of them to fit your prompt." While snooping around Don's office, I discovered his prompt and had already finished a story to fulfill it, using a regular pen.

Don broke down sobbing. Poor guy. He had to be on the edge of a mental breakdown.

"Alright. Alright. Get it together, man. It's no big deal."

Don handed me his pen and the single page he managed to fill. I reassured him that everything would be alright and that he should go home and get some rest. His finished story would be on his desk in the morning.

Now armed with the devilish pen, I locked my office door and got to work. Writing furiously, like a madman, I filled page after page, recreating Anne's story as best as I could remember. I had to get this right. It had to be the same story, but with a different ending.

I lost track of time. The only thing that existed was the story. That's why the door knock startled me so much. I jumped out of my seat. One of the guards stood on the other side of my door window.

My heart raced. Did they suspect me of tampering with my own story? How could they? What if a Prompter came in? Are there two people on the other side of my door? A Prompter would know this isn't the pen assigned to me.

The guard knocked again. Louder.

Taking a deep breath, collecting myself, I invited him to come in.

"Mr. Sneed, will you be much later?" The guard showed no signs of suspicion.

"What time is it?" I asked.

"Almost 10 o'clock. The night shift will be here soon, and to be honest with you, they give me the creeps. I'd get home before they show."

"Oh, I see." I paused, trying to recall how much more I had to write. "Yes, I'm almost done. Do I have thirty minutes?"

"Yeah, they won't be here until eleven." The guard closed my door, and my heart slowed to a more normal pace.

I ended Anne's story in such a way that the Prompters will never be able to find her with their evil pens again. It's my story, so I created a mage who cast a protective spell over her and her family. A spell that makes them invisible to the pens. The pen vibrated with anger after I wrote that part. I angered it even more when I inserted myself into Anne's story. I, too, had the mage cast her protective spell over me.

I placed my story for Don on his desk along with the demonic pen. I also wrote out my resignation from the writers club. Tomorrow I'll call the police and convince them to at least raid the Prompters. They will find the fireproof cases containing our stories in the vault. When the investigators read about deaths that match unexplained actual deaths to a tee, I believe they'll have some questions for the Prompters.

I may also face questions and possibly jail time. But it will be worth it to bring those murderous madmen to justice.