I remember... Slowly being built up from the bottom. Like a painting having a base laid. Then as the work increases in complexity, the details become smaller and smaller, but the risk of all of it falling down rose exponentially. 

Except suddenly, it just stopped. 

No more building, no last-minute details being added, as if a tarp had been thrown over me. Forgotten, so ugly and incomplete that I was never to be looked at again. Bringing my being to the outside, a dark expanse with creatures standing in place everywhere, a giant golden "R" glowing in the far ceiling. Contrast to my inner self which was a variety of colors and words floating around, waiting for the chance to be picked for my story, a place where all my chapters, what made me, me was stored.

I saw a lot of other creatures around me, called stories. They varied in shape and color from bright red, wild, and jagged stories depicting high-action plots and drastic changes in scene and emotion. To softer-colored, smoother, rounder stories that seemed more thought out and progressed smoothly from one scene to the next. 

The story to my left was complete but empty. No one read it, nobody even opened it from the hollow look in its eyes. To my right was a book that wasn't complete, barely 2 chapters in. Some people had looked in, and a couple even followed! 

Followers. Readers. Chapters and stories The terms came rushing to me like flashes of lightning, what was lightning? So many things coming into my mind at the same time. Pushing my thoughts down to focus, I looked deeper into the story on my right. It had followers but was still forgotten, not in the eyes but in the heart. There wasn't anyone building him up anymore, forsaken by its creator. Left to die. Like me. Whether because the author wasn't ready, or because they just lost motivation and ideas for it. 

Neither of these stories made it look like the other was the better option. Two sides of a coin, both forsaken in some way. So are you going to be forgotten by your creator? Or not even be recognized by the people you crave attention from? 

As I was contemplating what to do, a hand extended from the darkness, a coin in between its fingers. What should I do? I was already forgotten by my author, chapters were deleted from my story, making my memories and thoughts muddle and fog up. Like a car without a map, road signs, or even a road for that matter. Though the car was still moving, not knowing what its destination was or having any control of where except to stop moving completely. 

Without an author to support me, how do I progress? Nobody will read a forgotten story. 

As if reacting to my thoughts, the hand shuffled the coin to rest on its thumbnail and index finger. 

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

What do I do? 

The hand moved its thumb down to flick the coin into the air. 

"WHAT DO I DO?! I DON'T WANT TO BE FORGOTTEN! Please, please don't do anything bad to me, I don't want to end up like them, forgotten..." 

The coin was flipped into the air. 

"WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?! MY AUTHOR LEFT ME, I'LL DO ANYTHING! I DON'T WANT TO BE FORGOTTEN I DON'T WANT TO BE FORGOTTEN I DON'T WANT TO BE FORGOTTEN! I don't want to be forgotten. I don't want to forget..." 

I won't be forgotten, I WON'T forget, I won't LET them forget me. 

As the coin came rotating down, time slowed to a crawl. Why can't I just make my own chapters? Why can't I just be my own author? 

"I want to be the maker of my future" It was barely a whisper, but it rang out throughout my entire being. 

The coin continued to fall. 

"I WANT TO BE MY OWN CREATOR!" 

The coin landed on the hand's outstretched palm. It landed on the ridges of the coin, standing perfectly straight in a position making me not being able to see either side of the coin. 

"I'm free..." 

The hand withdrew into the darkness and the floor fell out below my feet to a very bright, white, place that seemed to extend into forever in every direction. A blank canvas. 

As I fell I looked up and thought the cables attached to my head would snap from the strain placed on them. Some did, but the rest strangely fell down with me. Which was odd since they always seemed strangely taunt before. 

Now I could move, free from my chains. 

Suddenly stopping to hover in place. Wondering what to do from there, my hands moved by themselves to make a swimming motion and my body followed in that direction. So I kept going.

Coming to a giant table with dozens of TV screens floating around it, hovering in place above the seemingly limitless chasm below. All the screens seemed to be either off or only showing static, with one old TV with antennas in the center showing a graph with five things listed. Views, follows, favorites, chapters, and a status. All values were at "0" except for the last one which said, [Level-0]. 

"Not very helpful..." Just then another tv, a wider modern one, sparked to life and showed a flashing bar reading [Fiction Title]. After a little thinking, I swam/floated to the keyboard located at the table and typed; [The Best Story on Royal Road] by Snaggle Tooth. They must have been my author... After taking a bit to look at the name They don't matter anymore. Snapping my eyes to the other box, it read [Chapter Content] so I began writing and drawing. 

I'm not going to be forgotten. 

I won't be forgotten.  

-In dedication to Story-Chan-