All your friends are dead. So far, the only common denominator is you.

Not following, DD? Sit up straight. Pay attention. I will only tell you this once more today.

Deaths drift upward. Like peach-colored steam from boiling creativity. Up, up, up they go, all abandoned thoughts and dashed dreams...all murdered imaginary friends...

And then there’s you. DD. The exception to the rule.

Imaginaries (IFs) who are unattached to living beings are labeled as “recusants” and are legally left for dead. They wander until Time does the inevitable and churns their essence to mist. That is, unless, they find themselves a living “anchor” - a writer without a resident IF.

Every time an author creates a masterwork, that piece gains a soul of its own and becomes a something in between the living and the imagined. An artifact. Witnessed by “Realities” while communing with IFs. When a person reads a passage with the power to puncture their passivity... When a person is refashioned by a reading... they have come into contact with an artifact. It cuts them. Like a knife.

I do not pretend to understand the artifact you wield, but I believe he saved your life. And he continues to do so every time “Jawafra, Blade of Fate” is checked out of the library.

“Hang on,” I hear you thinking. “Where’s the death in all of this? You started this little conversation with a strong line about friends dying, and then you wasted time on lore.”

DD, you are as impatient as your maker, God rest his wicked soul.

Bridget Weller, aged 47. Read the book while tipping tea. Met her end while tasting trifle.

Hamilton Beamish, aged 32. Began the book by the Salisbury Cathedral. Met his end in the North Sea.

Oliver Presley, aged 55. Pinched the book from Banabas Bauldry. Died right next to the man the following year. (What an odd time that was for you, to hold two anchors at once. You’d cautioned them against eating unidentified foliage. Some choose never to learn.)

Jenna Bromberg, 68 - pecked to death by aggrieved chickens.

Julian Oddysprey, 24 - crushed by overpriced uni textbooks.

Stan “the Prophet” - attempted time travel.

Louise Elaine - flesh-eating rage.

Rhonda Comyn - gravity.

Zachariah Prestcote - shame.

Remember them?

If I’m being honest, I’m just talking to pass the time. It’s been three weeks since your most recent anchor died and you’re…we’re…starting to weaken. Look at your hands. There’s barely any flesh there. Your hair is graying. Your vision’s fading.

Jawafra hasn’t left this house and we don’t know why. He’s just laying there, silent, at the foot of Tabitha’s bed. Does he not know she’s passed away? Her body isn’t even in this place.

Maybe he’s finally lost his power. Or worse…maybe he’s withholding it from you. You must have angered him. Why else would he be so silent? Three weeks. Three weeks! Twenty-one distressing days. He’s never made you wait this long.

DD, what did you do?