ghost.

"For the Savage, life had been all too real.  Life was being all too real.  There were times... He wished he were on an earth filled with volcanoes, fighting off pirates to defend his honour and his homeland and his castle and his wife."

"For the Savage, death had been all too close.  Death would be all too real.  In a day, a year, right this instant.  It would come.  It will come.  There were times... He wished he were close enough to live his life fully, yet far enough... To pull out when he couldn't take any more."

H lifted the pen off paper.  A long, drawn-out, sigh.  Just more cliched story plots, beginnings that would never have a conclusion.  He'd used to like shutting a book on the third to last page, willing it not to end, willing the story to keep going until forever.  But now, being the writer, and not the writee... It was frustrating not to know the end.  It was frustrating not to know where to go.  It was frustrating holding this pen.

Why am I writing on paper?  Hasn't technology made the transition to paperless yet?  Am I looking for an archaic time writing these stories?  Not even stories.  All the fantasy books on the shelves are trash these days.  What do they call me?  Jaded.  Yah.  I'm destroying my livelihood like this.  Thousands and thousands...

The coffee pot whistled once.  H lifted the pen off paper.