Chapter 1. Welcome to my jailed imagination She yawns. She sleeps. She snores. I am awake. I grip the pen nervously as I made sure she is 100% asleep. Then, releasing a wary sigh of relief, I continued to write. The dragon woke up from the midst of the fiery pits it called its home, and startled the silence with a roar of a volcano’s. Its eyes: amber glowing ruby. Its breath: a cloud of mist, hissing with steam evolving into the heat of boiling lava. Its scales glimmered a magnificent kind of rouge that sparked up the remnants of embers into mountain fires. It was fierce, frightening, and bold, but beautiful. It--- Somewhere in the house, a candle was lit. The evil has awakened. I closed the book and quickly climbed into bed. Too late. The blanket was pulled away from me and with a shrill and irritated voice, the evil spoke. “You’ve been writing again haven’t you??”. She pulled me to my feet, and lashed at me with her fearsome whip. I cried out of pain. She whipped me some more. I cried more. This was my life. Fifteen years of my life in the abomination of this orphanage. It’s a miracle how I survived this far. Readers, I welcome you to my jailed imagination. After fifteen years, I begin to wonder if I will ever be able to get out. I don’t get nightmares because I already live in a nightmare, and I wasn’t even sure if it was going to end. That’s where my imagination comes in. I created my own world outside the walls of this place I’m supposed to call home. It made life easy. It was my only way out. Then they had to take that away too. Every story I have written down were burnt and ripped. They, for some reason, had something against it. Now, it’s the Dragon of the fireflies’ turn. I hated them.
--preview. This story is based on a 'what if'. As in, what if writers were told not to write? What if no one was allowed to have an imagination? What if imagination became reality? But anyway, I sort of ended up writing a sci-fi. The plot--I don't think it'd be too original. You might recall something you've read that's similar. I'm guessing all writers have a desire for it to happen, or perhaps it's like a hidden myth we all half-heartedly believe in. Either way, this is my written story. | 
