Dear Diary,

Today, I opened my eyes and found myself at a hilly meadow. I saw violet flowers to my right, and a glassy pond to my left. Behind me was a range of mountains, and ahead of me stood a wooden cottage with a smoking chimney on the roof, and a forest of emerald trees flanking it on both sides. It looked warm, comfortable, and inviting.

So, I did the only thing I could. I grabbed the dagger and slit my own throat.

A depressed translator finds himself stranded in another world and thinks that the person upstairs must be seriously desperate to choose him as their subject of entertainment.

As this is written for the upcoming Writathon, the story's plot is not nearly as thought out as it should be. Still, you can't practice writing without writing, so here we go.