The God of His World

Night air swayed into the opened door, through the house, and whispered softly to all its inhabitants. One boy had listened, but took little interest; shivering slightly was his only reaction. He sat silently at the desk in his room as he diligently wrote. There was neither a television nor computer there to entertain him.
 
Silence…the sweet sound of silence filled the air, and time seemed to have stood still to the boy. His dark blue eyes focused on the paper before him as he slowly brought it to life with his words. He brushed his brown hair to the left side of his face to clear his vision. He continued with his work, the fate of his very own universe at his fingertips.
 
Tap…tap…tap. The God of that world lightly tapped his hand, following to rhythmic beat of the imaginary scene. With the flick of his hand, and the curve of the pencil tip, the fate of the battle was sealed.
 
Cadence beating…never stopping, never slowing. Ten thousand of the finest men of the Northern Skyland Region, and twelve thousand of the most brutal men of the Westward Desert Region intertwined in mortal combat. Their swords crashed together; sparks were birthed from a few of the collisions. Within his world a shower of red and black rained onto the battlefield. The rhythm of the war drums guided the armies’ actions.
 
For what reasons did the two have for this blood bath? The people of the Westward Desert Region had very little farm land, while those of the Northern Skyland had the best of the known world. What man could resist such a fertile ground? No fool would dare pass up such a luxury, especially for wife and babe.
 
Those of the Northern Skyland, however, took this action of desperation as hostile. Unwilling to believe the Westward Desert peoples’ reasons, they assumed the worst; the Temple of their God of Agriculture, Parthenthios, dwelled in the very heart of their region. They believed that they had come to claim the Temple and pervert it with their own “false gods”. They feared that if any unclean miscreant soul were to so much as dare enter the Temple, Parthenthios, would surely punish the Northern Skyland people for allowing such a thing to happen.
 
The boy outside the war of the paper smiled slightly, pleased with his creation. The people of the Westward Desert Region were strong, powerful and strove to do what was best for their people…everything he wished he could be. He gave them mighty weapons and unbelievable strength and stamina.
 
The Northern Skyland people were secluded, intelligent, fearful and paranoid…everything the boy was. For he saw them as a mere shadow of himself laid out onto paper. He gave these people adaptability, armor, and effective battle strategies.
 
Tat, tat, rat-a-tat-tat…lives were claimed one by one, man after man…gone. The boy continued tapping his hand to the rhythm of the war drums as he formed the scene. The archers of the north prepared their bows, ready to take out the first line of the western defenses.
 
Tat, tat, rat-tat, rat-a-tat…those of the Westward Desert drew their swords and wooden shields as they yelled and chanted battle cries. The end was near, and they could all feel it. They ran forward and screamed to the top of their lungs, some silently prayed.
 
Tat, tat, rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat, tat…the god of the world continued writing…creating…tapping his hand faster and faster. The tempo quickening the night air’s wind whispering more and more, louder and louder. The boy’s mind raced with thoughts of war and formed them into flowing words.
 
Tat-tat, rat-a-tat, tat…quickening ever more, the finally of the battle drawing near. One more chance, one more swing of the sword, one last draw of the bow, one final breath. His hand was tapping, pencil creating, all to the rhythm of the war drums.
 
Man after man came at one another, their blades becoming dirty, shields cracking, and sparks birthing. Man after man fell, their blood spilling out and painting the ground with red. The archers lit the tips of each arrow ablaze, and then readied them. And just as they drew the bow…
 
“Son, lights out,” he heard. The lad immediately dropped his pencil; the rhythm was lost. He turned his head slowly and stared at the man in the doorway.
 
The boy’s father smiled. “It’s time for bed, lights out,” he repeated.
 
The boy sighed and stood up and he stretched a bit before walking over to the door. He rested a finger on the light switch, ready to press downward. “Night Dad,” he said after turning out the light.
 
“Night son,” his father replied as he closed the door. A few moments passed when he found his way to his bed after stumbling every now and again. He lay back in his bed and pulled the covers to his neck. Sleep had yet to take hold of him as he stared into the darkness. He could’t help but think about his story, about the war. The boy laid and pondered, who deserves to win more?

Word count: 851