It was a dark, stormy night, much like the types normally used as a background for horror stories around the campfire. But there was no campfire here, and the story being written did not have anything to do with the surroundings mentioned. In fact, the surroundings did not even affect me at all as I worked, indoors, typing on my computer.

That's what I had been doing, anyways, until a rather peculiar line of text appeared, coming from the mouth of my main character. "I don't believe the author exists."

This startled me greatly, of course. How could my character believe that I didn't exist? I CREATED him, for goodness sake! And so I typed, 'But George (the name of the main character) soon realized that he was mistaken in his thought that the author did not exist.'

"No, I didn't! Why should I believe that there's an author? I've never SEEN an author."

This disturbed me. To say the least. So I began to type again, 'Suddenly George realized how truly idiotic he would have to be to think an author did not exist. After all, he only existed himself in written word, and words do not come into existence except through the will of one writing them.'

"How should I know that someone wrote them? Maybe the computer had a randomizing text creator, or maybe, maybe a MONKEY wrote me! After all, I'm not all that well written anyhow. If an infinite amount of monkeys on typewriters given infinite amounts of time could produce the works of William Shakespeare, then I would probably only take a few DAYS!"

My own character was insulting me. Do you REALIZE how degrading that felt? I had to prove to him that I existed. But… HOW? Anything I typed, anything at all, could be dismissed at a whim. He wasn't even looking for an INTELLIGENT whim! Just a whim. Suddenly, though, an idea struck me.

With a blinding flash of inspirational vigor, I, the author, wrote myself into my own story to prove that I existed to my own character. 'With golden hair that only came to my neck but wafted freely in the wind regardless of the laws of physics, chiseled muscles that glistened with the light that reflected off the sweat caused by my own hotness, eyes that shown with every color inside of the scope of vision (and a few that weren't), and the intelligence of the ages, I appeared, and I spoke with the voice as sweet as rain and powerful as thunder, "I, am the author."

"Prove it."

I stared at my computer screen in utter disbelief. Did he not see me in the beauty of my pure written perfection? Maybe it's understandable, though. In the literary world MarySues/GaryStues pop up all over the place! He had nothing to say that I, as a character, wasn't just another one.

'Showing my authorly omnipotence, the perfectly divine visage of a male figure that is myself reached out a baby-soft hand with perfectly manicured nails toward a nearby plain and spoke again, making a nearby crowd of females faint in a state of pure rapture. "Behold." With the clever fantasy prowess of my authorly skills displayed in full might, from the flat plain arose the largest mountain in the written world. Flexing flawless muscles into poses that no normal human could attain, I awaited the approval of George.

George shrugged. "Earthquake."'

What… the… flock… Did I really create a character that stupid? Maybe something else would work, something that couldn't POSSIBLY happen.

'With a wave of my hand, and a placement of my smile with teeth that reflected the light of the sun more intensely than the sun itself, I summoned forward a woman in the crowd who I had written with a terrible, debilitating, and 'naturally' incurable disease. "BE HEALED." With a cry of joy, the woman found that her disease had vanished.

"It was all in her head to begin with."

Hoo-kay… so even MORE impossible. 'A conveniently placed funeral procession came striding through the area, apparently bearing a young child, the victim of some unknown ailment. Upon breathing the same air as myself in all of my literary splendor, the people carrying the casket fell prostrate before me, the casket itself shattering upon the ground and hurtling the dead boy into the ground at my feet.

"ARISE." With a brilliantly written shower of golden white light pouring around him, and the breathy windy type sound that people always put into stories where stuff like this happens, the boy rose up onto his feet, his life restored.

"He was probably just sleeping soundly. This story is set in a time before we can medically test these things anyways, you know?"'

I was starting to become upset. Enough that I only slightly cared if he believed I existed or not. I was the one who created him; I was the one who GAVE HIM PURPOSE, and he felt as if he could reject ME?

'My eyes rolled into my head with the sheer, overwhelmingly intoxicating effect of my authorly power. With bolts of pure, wrathful energy coursing throughout my body and invigoratingly tingling at my perfectly anatomically correct loins, I created a raging fireball with the intensity of a thousand suns. "IF YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THAT I EXIST, AND THAT I AM THE AUTHOR," I screamed aloud in the magnified and distorted, dark and powerful lord type of way, striking fear into every heart and jellifying the legs of men, women, children, and any other mammalian creatures alike, "THEN YOU WILL DIE!" With unimaginable written force, the fireball struck the world on which my story was created and eliminated all life, and the planet itself. Then, using the amazing powers at my control through the use of my computer keyboard, I wrote it back into existence. "Explain THAT!"

"Sun-spots. I was probably just hallucinating."

I let my head flop uselessly back against the chair of my computer desk, truly feeling defeated. When suddenly, an odd idea came into my head. In the real world I may be a mild mannered computer geek, but I certainly had enough power to fix THIS problem!

With calm head and cool touch, I pressed ctrlA, then delete. With smug composure I walked away from the now non-existent story, made myself a sandwich and drank a can of pop, then lived in relative happiness for the rest of the day.

The End.