Breaking Reality – Version 2.0


Instead of falling into a fantasy world and having to confront a prophecy that says I must defeat the evil Dark Lord, my characters from my imagination have crossed the line and fallen into my world. The good, the bad, the ugly... The Elves, the demons, the sci-fi alien invaders... A cast too large to list. So many stories, so many characters, so many worlds converging on one... And they all know I'm the Author. Now it's just a matter of getting them back without killing too many people in the process. Easier said than done. Especially when even the "good guys" refuse to listen.

Warning: This product is rated T for Teen. Reasons: Mild language. Violence. And, if you count this, no blame will be taken if you experience several "wtf" moments while reading this.

Chapter 1: Meet Me

My name is Stephanie. Boring, yes, I know. Popular, yes, I know. Do I care? No, I don't.

Call me Steph. Or Reda after my penname. Or you can call me hun, though I will look at you strangely if I don't know you. You can even call me chibi. I'll answer to "Hey you" if you like.

Yeah, I know, it kind of takes away the point of a name, doesn't it?

A name isn't everything.

Sure, in fantasy, you have to have these cool names to go with cool characters and how dare you name the main character Bob. It is a rule in Dungeons and Dragons that you cannot name your character Bob. They tell you to be more original.

And if you don't know about Dungeons and Dragons, D&D, then I pity your soul, but it is a RPG (that's role-playing game) where you sit down with a DM (dungeon master) and some dice and a character sheet where you write down all the important stats…

See, the DM is like an author. He creates a world. You are the characters. You walk through his world, interact, explore, delve into dungeons, maybe even fight a dragon if you're cool enough. Yeah. It's a lot of fun. I can see why they don't want you to be a character named Bob. How dare a dwarf named Bob take down a dragon, after all?

Fine. I understand. In fantasy, a name can be everything…it can make or break a character. So let's not be extreme with the nicknames okay?

Don't go calling me AFJIRKF or something. I can't even pronounce that. No "fluffy bunny" or "Pookie the monkey" or anything crazy like that, either. Those strange pet names are reserved for muses. Let them keep 'em. I'm not a muse. Or a pet.

So, hi, I'm Stephanie.

I'm not someone that runs around on the whim of an author. I won't jump over a bridge even if my friends do. I won't go looking for some-important-person-or-artifact if a guy in a black cloak tells me to. Fuck. That. Shit.

I have a brain, thank you very much. I live in the world of 2008. I'm not voting for Hillary. Or Obama. Don't know who I'm going for yet, but certainly not either one of them. Yes, I'm old enough to vote. I go to college. And so does your mom.

I'm also in band. Shoot me for being a music geek. I can't help it. I grab my clarinet. I play a little la-la-la or some really sad or freaky melody. I keep hearing these clarinets in these sad commercials. "I have such-and-such disease." "So-and-so took my identity." Cue clarinet.

Yeah. I'm not kidding. Listen for it. I forget exactly what commercial so I'm guessing here, but yeah. It kinda makes me laugh.

Because I am so not an angsty, emo, sad person. My glass is half-full thank you very much.

When people talk about the end of the world coming in four years because whoever-it-was predicted the end of the world in 2012…I laugh. Everyone's always half-serious anyway, but when they say it they want you to think and go "oh my god." Me? I laugh. The end of the world is going to happen the year after. Yep. 2013. Watch for it.

Or maybe…

Maybe the end of the world…

Will be this year…

Did you ever think of that one?

And I'm going to laugh if it really happens.

Okay. Time to set the scene for you.

It's a nice clear day in Louisiana of the U. S. of A. where I live. If you have a problem with me being "a selfish spoiled bratty American teenager" then sorry.

No, wait, I have to say something about that real fast. Stereotypes and all…They suck, you know, for those of us who don't fit them. I am not selfish. Not spoiled. Not a brat. Yes, I'm an American teenager. No, I haven't been through anything tough—besides fucking up my first semester of college and getting a second chance.

But I'm not a brat.


Of course, I can tell you that and I can point out reasons why, but…you won't believe me anyway. So. I'll just laugh and say "yup, stupid American. That's me."

I don't get everything I want. I live at home with my parents, younger brother and sister…a dog and two cats. Both of which we had to pay no money for besides the taking-care-of that came after the fact. I'm talking about the pets, not the younger siblings.

I used to work at a sandwich store until I got my scholarship back and decided to focus on studies. Focus. Like. School not movies. School not fiancé. School not food.

Okay the last one is a bit ridiculous, but I do it sometimes. It's why I look like Barbie. I don't starve myself to look like that – I swear! Anorexia comes from not eating in order to look skinny to appease some self-esteem issue or something stupid.


I just don't like food. And I'm very, very picky. Sorry. I know, I know… "the poor kids in Africa would love to have what's on your plate". I'm sorry. I'm full. Get over it. My stomach is small and hates me. Okay?

Yeah, I ate at the sandwich store I used to work at. Yummy. I love the salads there. I love salad. No, I'm not eating salads to get skinny. I'm eating them because they taste good. I'm the kind of girl who eats half a candy bar and puts it to the side because I'm full and the video game I'm playing is so much more interesting. And I did this when I was, like, eight years old.


That's me.

I wear skimpy clothes. Because they're comfortable. I have long hair and blond highlights, though I cut the hair to be just below my shoulders. Because I like it. I wear contacts. Because I prefer them over the itchy glasses on my nose.

I play in the band. Because it's fun. I read cliché fantasy. Because it's interesting. Sometimes. I watch sci-fi. Because it's cool. I love Star Wars. Because the Force is just that awesome. I write stories. Because I want to.


Now you have a good picture of me.

Quite a geek, aye? Tall. Skinny. Hot. But a geek.

And quite proud of the fact.

Also, I'm a procrastinator of the tenth degree. Meaning? I don't know…it just sounded cool.



Name: Stephanie

Age: 19

Education: College

Hobbies: Reading, Writing, Playing in the band, Watching Star Wars, playing RPGs

Paint my picture. You should be able to do it pretty well.

Time for the story.

So it's a normal day. It's clear. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. Actually, I never hear birds. It's more like airplanes. I live near an Airforce Base. There's lots of airplanes. All. Day. Long.

And everyone knows when something weird is going on military wise. Like. On September 11th. The 9/11. Did airplanes fly? Not on their normal shifts. Nope. Kind of made everyone look up when there was an airplane, and wow—Airforce One right in our backyard.

Kind of cool.

Until we knew the reason why.

Then it wasn't cool anymore.

Anyway, it's about three in the afternoon. On a Tuesday. Just got out of my last class of the day. Sitting in the college parking lot. Waiting on people to move out of the way so I can go home. Kind of makes me wish I had a dorm room to go back to. Dorm rooms are always on campus. Anything on campus, I can walk to. Much prefer the walking than the driving—or the waiting on people to move. Sigh.

People are stupid.

I read that in a book somewhere. I think it was Wizard's First Rule. Terry Goodkind. Yeah. Zedd said it to Richard. "Wizard's First Rule: people are stupid." Best part in that book. Seriously.

Because. It's. So. True.

I mean. Hello people. Do you see this little white car, trying to back out? No. You want to sit there and chat about some stupid movie. Real smart. "Let's have a pow-wow in the middle of the school parking lot just after a class gets out." That's what buildings and courtyards are for. Dumb asses.

I roll down my window. I'm about to yell at them. But first, I turn up my music really loud. I love my music. Heavy classical-like metal. Ever heard of Trans-Siberian Orchestra? Symphony X? Kamelot? Dragonforce?

Yeah. Guitars go sque-sque-sque-sque at the speed of…people shouldn't be able to move their fingers that fast, honestly. But the best part is the singers. And the fantasy stories they sing about sometimes.

Like. Dream Theater.

Love. Them. To. Death.

Anyway, most people around campus look down on my type of music. This is Louisiana. It's like. Rap. R&B. Or Country. You don't like that kind of music? Too bad. Ninety-five percent of the people here love one of those three. This is why I don't go to school dances.

So, I blast my music really, really loud and start singing along as I roll my window down. Yeah. I have to roll it down manually. I don't have one of those nice cars that have automatic locks or windows or anything cool. It's not a shift-stick or whatever, but it's not awesome-cool on automatic things.

The people behind me glare. I smile. They move away.

Always works.

So. As I'm rolling my window back up and about ready to back up out of my parking spot…I see…the thing.

It looks like a demon from my story. Seriously. In the air. Flying over the campus building.

I blink. Still see it. Dark shape with gargoyle-like wings flying over my school. A tail with the triangular end that looks like it belongs in some weird anime. It's my version of a demon. RIGHT THERE!

Then it's gone.

Not like it disappeared. No magical poof or anything cool like that. It's just gone. Because it flew out of my vision.


Shaking my head, a little freaked, I tell myself I'm crazy and then proceed to drive home. Traffic sucks. Traffic always sucks. I'm just lucky I make it home without dying. Or crashing. Or doing anything stupidly dangerous.

I park my car on the side of the road, halfway on the curb. My parents will be home before I decide to go out again. My mom is a school teacher in a school some place thirty minutes away from home. My dad works at a propane business. He sells gas. Haha. I'm so funny.

Right. Anyway, they use the driveway. Not me. I use the road. So does every other teenager in the neighborhood—even the stupid ones who park on a curve in the road to where you can't see them until you come around the corner and then you're having to swerve to miss their big truck. Go figure.

After parking, I throw my keys into my purse. Look. I hate purses and all because they're bottomless pits of doom…but…they're useful. Girl pants do not have big pockets. I can't fit my wallet in a pocket. I can't fit my keys in a pocket. I can barely fit my hands in my pockets. So. A purse I use. It works.

So I get out of my car, leaving my school books in the back with all the other shit I throw back there. I hate it when my friends want me to drive. The only clean seat in my car is mine. Every time I have to drive a group of friends, I have to throw everything in the trunk. This is why my trunk is a mess.

Books. Papers. Pens. Pencils. Empty bottles. Half full bottles. (Glass half full remember?) Half eaten candy bars. Yeah. Welcome to my trunk.

But I don't care.

I just go up to my house, purse in hand, trying to forget about the demon that flew over my school. It was just my imagination, okay? I'm going crazy. I not only talk to my characters; now I'm starting to see them. Maybe I should go see a psychiatrist or something.

No one's home yet. My sister should be getting off her bus in the next thirty minutes, but she's not home yet. So. I go to the garage. Press the buttons on the code thingy so that it'll open. The house came that way, don't ask me. It's a one-story house with small rooms, but it has a cool garage opener.

That doesn't work half the time. Like now.

Growling, I press the buttons harder. NINE. NINE. INSERT NUMBER HERE.

I'm not telling you the code to my house. Are you stupid?

Anyway, it opens this time. When it makes it half way open, I lean down and walk under it, sprinting to the door on the other side where I open the white door into my house.

Yay. Home. All alone. At home. No stupid siblings to listen to. They always fight. It's so annoying. No television making noise in the living room. Just the sound of the air conditioner as it turns on and sends cool air throughout the house.

So empty. So peaceful. I can close my eyes and just enjoy my thoughts for a few minutes.

I love it.

I close the door behind me, throw my purse on the nearest table, grab a Mountain Dew out of the fridge. My Mountain Dew. Has my name on the case. So my brother and sister won't steal it like they do sometimes. Yeah. We have rules.

Drinking down the yellow liquid, I think about the Game Fuel they came out with for the new Halo game and wish for a moment I had that instead. Game Fuel was the best. And they took it away. So stupid. Gah. Why are companies like that? It's like Burger King taking away the Whopper, ya know? How dare they?

So, with these thoughts, I walk into my living room intending to search out my white cat. Instead, I get something completely unexpected, and I freeze.

"Hello, Reda."