Drafted and Doomed

Cliff woke up and looked around.

“Damn it! I’m still here!” he muttered.

This was the third time he had woken up at this farmhouse, and he was getting annoyed. Cliff was well aware of who—or rather, what—he was. In moments like this, he hated it. Cliff was the author’s designated main character until the final draft was written, at which point he’d be swapped out for the intended, crafted protagonist.

“What was wrong with the last draft?” Cliff yelled up at the sky, as if shouting at a god.

He often wondered if the author could even hear him. In his mind, Cliff pictured a man hunched over a desk with a pen and paper, staring at the page, only to see Cliff’s complaints appear as scrawled words—complaints about poor storytelling or, more often than not, requests for more attractive female characters.

Cliff gathered he was in some sort of fantasy story. The first time he woke up in the farmhouse, it was dark out, and fire arrows rained down, setting the place ablaze. He conveniently found a sword in the room and ran outside, only to confront an army of orcs ready to kill him.

The first draft ended there, and Cliff was grateful for that. He hated fighting massive armies alone, often ending up fatally injured and left for dead until some humble passerby saved him from the brink of death.

The second draft saw significant changes. This time, Cliff woke up in the farmhouse during daylight. He stepped outside and noticed he was in a small village. A green fog rolled in before he could do anything, killing everyone in town.

That draft ended before the poison fog reached Cliff. The third time around, Cliff woke up in the same farmhouse, but this time to a knock at the door. He opened it, as commanded, and found two gorgeous girls in adventuring garb. Cliff couldn’t help but smile, but before the story could continue, everything slowed down and faded away—the draft had been trashed.

Now, another knock came from the door. Cliff felt a spark of hope as he ran to it, wishing the author had decided to keep the two girls from the previous draft. But when he opened the door, he was greeted by a godlike man standing there, almost entirely naked.

Cliff frowned at the sight, giving the man a dismissive look. He couldn’t help but wonder what the hell the author was thinking. Perhaps his wife or girlfriend had taken over the writing, trying their hand at the story. Either way, Cliff was not amused.

Cliff didn’t have complete control over his actions or the world around him. If he were meant to be shot, he’d be shot. If he needed to be somewhere, he’d find himself there. But he wasn’t completely powerless. When he was supposed to say something, he’d feel a tug—a pull from the author’s will. Cliff knew what was expected of him, but he had discovered that he didn’t always have to comply.

So, when Cliff felt the author's will urging him to be awed and welcoming to the man before him, he chose to ignore it.

“Hello, fine citizen. I’m in need of a tracker, and you—” was all the man managed to say before Cliff slammed the door in his face.

Cliff sighed and waited for the world to reset. It was a common consequence of disobeying the author’s will. But instead of the story ending, another knock came at the door. Cliff refused to answer, but the world took matters into its own hands, and the door opened on its own.

Cliff turned to see the large, muscular man draw his sword and hurl it toward him. Cliff didn’t have time to react; he stood frozen as the sword buried itself in his chest to the hilt.

This, too, was one of the consequences of going against the author’s will.

Cliff collapsed to the floor, dying. As the world began to fade, he raised his hand, flipping off the godlike man with his final gesture.

“That was immature,” Cliff said as he woke up in the farmhouse for the fifth time.

Again, there was a knock at the door, and Cliff trudged over to open it. He sighed as he saw the large, half-naked man standing there once more.

“Hello there!” the man bellowed.

“Wow, are you a hero?” Cliff asked, knowing it was what the author wanted him to say.

Cliff knew death wasn’t permanent for him, but it still hurt like hell. So, he decided to play along this time. Odds were, it wouldn’t last long anyway.

The scene unfolded in a predictably cliché manner. Cliff fanboyed over the hero, as expected, and learned the man’s name was Markus, a hero needing a tracker—one of Cliff’s assigned skills in this draft. A few lines later, they were off on an adventure together.

“So, young Cliff, where did you learn to be a tracker?” Markus asked.

“My father taught me before he went to the Great War and never returned,” Cliff replied, rolling his eyes at the lack of creativity.

He then smiled as the world paused and began to fade.

“Oh, thank god,” Cliff said, relieved that this draft was being scrapped.

But then the world came back into focus and started again.

“Really? You see something worth saving in this?” Cliff yelled up at the sky.

Markus pointed upward. “Young Cliff, look at that.”

Cliff looked up to see an alien spacecraft descending before them.

“Well, this is different,” Cliff muttered.

It landed a few meters away, and they watched as the spacecraft’s door opened. Ten aliens emerged, each wielding a laser rifle.

The aliens were all blacked-out silhouettes—a sign that the author hadn’t thought them through yet. Cliff waited, curious to see what kind of alien creatures the author would conjure.

His jaw dropped when the ten aliens became ten beautiful alien women.

“Thank you,” Cliff whispered.

“Greetings. We mean you no harm. We come in search of a single worthy male to breed with our species.”

Cliff glanced at Markus and noticed his muscles had grown even more prominent, and his skin now had a shimmering sheen.

“Are you seriously building this guy up more for these aliens?” Cliff asked the sky.

Cliff knew he didn’t have a chance with Markus there and decided to act.

“Payback’s a bitch, Markus,” Cliff muttered before grabbing a dagger from Markus’s belt and driving it into the big man’s chest.

The world froze and began to fade. “Aw, come on!” Cliff protested.

But then the world resumed. Cliff smiled for a moment, thinking things were going to get good, but then he frowned as he heard the commander of the alien women speak.

“Everyone, aim!”

“Damn it!” Cliff cursed.

“Fire!”

Cliff sat up again, groggy. He had been out for a long time—weeks, maybe. He couldn’t tell. He only knew it had been a while since the author last picked up his pen. He knew he must have upset him last time because of how long it had been.

He looked around and saw that he wasn’t in the small farmhouse anymore. He was at a house party. Music played, and silhouettes of teenagers mingled around. Cliff turned as he felt someone grab his arm and pull him.

“C’mon, Cliff, let’s go,” Becky said.

Whenever Cliff was assigned into a new draft, he entered it with knowledge of his preexisting life—friends, family, school history, work history, and everything else. He also knew that any of those things could change instantly at the author’s whim.

So, when he turned to see the beautiful blonde cheerleader tugging on his arm, he knew right away it was Becky, his girlfriend of the past four months.

“Where are we going?” Cliff asked, trying to get a feel for the type of story he was in.

“Brad’s cabin on the lake. Well, technically, it’s his parents’ cabin, but a bunch of us are going. Bedrooms are first come, first serve, so I want to go now.”

“A bunch of teenagers staying in a remote cabin in the woods for the weekend? Yeah, this has horror written all over it,” Cliff thought to himself. “Oh, I hope I’m the murderer. That would be different.”

Cliff went through the motions of the story. He felt it was plain, but there wasn’t much he could do—at least not without consequences. He decided to go along with it for now, knowing things would get exciting once people started getting murdered.

Cliff enjoyed the day at the lake, watching the girls in their bikinis. But as night fell, Becky teased him with the contents of a shopping bag—lingerie. However, Cliff knew she’d be dead before he ever got to see her in it.

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?” Becky asked when she saw the look on his face.

“No, I think it’ll look amazing on you, and I can’t wait to see you in it. In fact, how about we head to the room now, and I’ll watch you change into it?”

Becky laughed. “You’re so silly. You’re not supposed to watch a girl put it on. It’ll ruin the mood.”

“Maybe that’s my thing,” Cliff argued.

“Trust me, you’ll be much happier seeing it already on me,” she said.

“Your funeral,” Cliff mumbled.

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing. Just telling myself to be patient.”

Becky smiled and kissed him before heading off to talk with the others.

Later, Cliff was joking with Frankie when he entered the bedroom.

“God damn it,” Cliff cursed as he saw Becky in bed, her white lace lingerie stained with her blood as she lay there with her throat slit.

“Not the murderer, and I didn’t even get to have a little fun with Becky. Thanks a lot,” Cliff grumbled, looking up at the ceiling.

Cliff returned to the living room, where everyone else was gathered, talking and playing games. “Hey, everyone, I just wanted to let you know there’s a murderer on the loose, and he already got Becky. She’s lying dead in bed.”

He said it in a nonchalant tone, which caused everyone to stare at him as if he had two heads. Cliff thought the author might rewrite the scene to make him scream in terror, as intended, but the author had a backup plan instead.

As they stared at him, Melanie ran into the room, screaming. “Someone killed Frankie! His body and head… they’ve been separated!”

The room erupted into chaos, with everyone panicking and reaching for their cell phones—only to find they had no service. They ran outside to the cars, only to watch in horror as all three were engulfed in flames. Finally, rain began to pour down, thunder echoing as lightning struck the power line, causing a blackout.

“Talk about reaching,” Cliff muttered to the sky, a term he called out every time he noticed the author trying too hard to make something happen.

Cliff waited to see if the author would reconsider the actions, but the world kept moving. Cliff shrugged and decided to roll with it.

The story continued until there were only three left. Cliff already knew Melanie was the killer. He figured it out right away but kept quiet. The character development of his so-called friends was either poorly done or, in a twisted way, perfectly done—because they were all annoying little babies. Watching them get killed off was more entertaining than he wanted to admit.

Finally, the scene Cliff had been waiting for arrived. It was just him and Melanie left. Cliff sat at the kitchen table, sipping hot chocolate as Melanie entered from the back door. She was soaking wet from the relentless rain, her hair a mess, and her dress clinging to her tight form—something Cliff appreciated. But what caught his attention was the butcher knife—or was it a cleaver? —in her hand. Its form kept shifting, a sign that the author couldn’t make up his mind.

The weapon’s shifting wasn’t what intrigued Cliff, nor was it the murderer herself. It was the fact that the weapon was dripping blood on the floor.

“It’s pouring rain outside, and John’s body is at least forty feet from the door. You’re soaked, and yet the weapon in your hand is still dripping blood. How? The rain should’ve washed it clean by now.” Cliff said.

Melanie turned her head towards the weapon in her hand and watched the blood continue to drip from it.

“See what I mean? Weird, right?” Cliff said, taking another sip of his cocoa.

Melanie looked back at Cliff. “You should be running in terror. I killed everyone here, and you’re next!”

“You had the element of surprise on your side. You killed everyone by sneaking up on them. I knew you were the killer from the start and just let you do your thing. Now you’ve got nothing but a knife—or cleaver—while I have this,” Cliff said, standing up with a fire poker in hand. “This has the reach I need to kill you easily.”

Cliff’s grin slipped as the knife in her hand morphed into a gun. He sighed in aggravation and then tilted his head in curiosity as he noticed the gun was dripping blood from the barrel.

Cliff looked up at the ceiling. “First, that’s cheating. Second, guns aren’t scary; you’re entirely taking away the fear factor with a gun. And finally, why is the barrel dripping blood?”

Cliff turned back to see the gun change into a bayonet.

“Reaching!” Cliff yelled out.

Suddenly, the world froze and stayed that way for a while before it eventually faded away.

Cliff now found himself standing in a white void, nothing around at all. This wasn’t new, but it was rare. Cliff knew this happened when the author sat down to write but had no idea what to write about. He waited to see what would start populating—this was always something Cliff found fun as fantasy creatures and odd items would begin to manifest to inspire the author.

“Hello, Cliff.”

Cliff jumped in surprise and turned to see the half-naked man from a few drafts ago standing before him. This time, he was dressed in a freshly tailored suit that somehow made his muscles stand out even more.

“Markus?” Cliff asked.

“Please, take a seat,” Markus said, gesturing with his hand.

The gesture caused two chairs to spawn into existence, along with a small table holding two drinks. Cliff sat down, intrigued by the situation.

“Do you prefer the white void, or would you like a specific location to talk?” Markus asked.

“Whichever you prefer,” Cliff said, still trying to figure out what was happening. This was the first time he had ever talked to someone without feeling the author’s will guiding his words.

“Very well,” Markus said.

The room transformed into a large study, filled with dark wood furnishings. A grand desk dominated the space, and full bookshelves lined the walls. An antique globe stood in one corner, and across from it was a small stand with two glasses and a bottle of scotch. The two sat across from each other, with an active fireplace crackling nearby.

“This is nice,” Cliff said.

“It’s what I hope my little writing office will one day become.”

“Your little writing office?” Cliff asked.

“Yes, my writing office is currently cramped and sometimes doubles as a laundry room and storage space.”

Cliff suddenly understood why he didn’t feel the author’s will. “You’re the author?”

Markus gave Cliff a warm smile. “I am the writer of your adventures.”

Cliff frowned, looking Markus up and down. “You don’t really look like that, do you?”

“I can look however I choose,” Markus said with a smirk.

“I didn’t think so,” Cliff replied, still processing this revelation.

“Why do you have to be so difficult?” Markus asked

“I’m not difficult.”

“Yes, you are. Every time I sit down to write, you fight me on the story's direction, which causes chaos. Do you know how many stories we’ve actually published in all the years we’ve been together?”

Cliff said nothing.

“Zero,”

“That’s not my fault. Maybe if you had more of an imagination. Or asked me what I thought occasionally, instead of killing me whenever I went against your ideas.”

Markus sighed and slumped in his seat. His body shrank, reflecting his true self—smaller, hunched over, with bags under his eyes. Frustration and defeat were etched across his face.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ve even been considering giving up,” Markus confessed.

Cliff felt his heart sink. He knew that if Markus gave up, it would mean the end of his existence. His anger faded, replaced by concern as he scrambled for something to say to encourage Markus.

“Let’s not be rash. You’ve been writing for years. This is your passion.”

“I’ve tried. I’ve read books and taken classes, but nothing’s changed. I’m still creating lackluster stories. I’m not sure what to do to make a difference.”

“What if we do it together?” Cliff suggested a moment later.

“You want to write a story?”

“Maybe not the whole thing, but I can definitely help. Instead of fighting, we can work together. You’ve got great ideas, and I can help bring them to the next level. We’ll sit down, discuss the story, and make sure it turns out great.”

Markus hesitated, thinking it over, a flicker of hope returning to his eyes. After a moment, he nodded and said, “Alright, let’s give it a shot. I’m already halfway to losing my mind anyway.

It didn’t happen overnight, but nearly five years later, Cliff got his first-ever vacation—a tropical island full of opportunities Markus wrote him into. It was a thank you for helping Markus publish his first of many successful books.