The mountain upon which he sat loomed over the village, its shadow
like a tangible malice. Smoke rolled down its slopes and ascended
into the sky, a miasmic odor accompanying it. A typical day. The
town of Story was waiting for Writer's next volley of wrath to come
tumbling down the mountain.
The Champion's Guild had a board full of job listings. The
protagonists, heroes, and motley crews were dispatched to clear the
smoke and quell whatever evil had been roused by it. In their usual
fashion, success came moments before failure. This drew the ire of
Writer more than anything else, but despite his best attempts, his
own creations always managed to stop his assault.
The league of antagonists, villains, and monsters was more
independently based, only loosely affiliated with one another. Their
worry was not over what Writer wanted to do, because Writer always
held a special place for them in his heart. Besides, only a member
of the Champion's Guild was equipped to dispose of them, and only
then if there was a history. And it was in these times when Writer
was in a mood that they flourished. While the pompous, vanilla
saviors stemmed the tide of chaos, those who lurked in shadows were
free to stir up strife.
So it was on that day that Writer decided to, once again,
annihilate his own creations. He gave strength to evil and
disadvantaged good. He tipped the scales of balance and grinned
favorably at the ensuing turmoil. Though, this would not be the
first time he had done so, and he knew the end results would be the
same. He was weary of the never-ending cycle.
Writer decided to erase the village.
The valley rumbled and rolled up as a scroll. Characters and plot
points began trying to weasel their way into Writer's mind, to
preserve themselves in his neurons even after their ink had been
forgotten. His precious children, the disenfranchised evil ones,
moaned as their origins were stripped from them. Their motivation
purged, they curled as dying spiders, resenting the father who would
debase them. The protagonists and other heroes deadened their hopes
and stalwart determination. Then all the world as they knew it and
all within were as a white husk.
Writer wailed atop his mountain. There was more to be had, though
it would only be born of great anguish.
He reached out to the page and gripped it tightly. The valley
collapsed into itself, as he crumpled the paper. Then into
everlasting darkness it plummeted, as he tossed it into the waste
bin.
Paper was archaic anyway.
The keystrokes came, and the great mountain thundered with
creation. A new Story was being built, etched into the ether of
fibers and electricity. Its spires arched up, resolute, defiant. It
was a nexus of fictitious elements. It was segmented into districts,
interwoven yet foreign to one another. Streets of neon and smog
tangled with steam and steel. Castles of obsidian and forts of
pearl. Overgrown jungles, ripe with flora and sweet mist. Still
there were cold places, mansions of ice with bitter winds howling
through the eves. Void expanses between laser guided rails and
plasma propelled crafts.
Writer sat back and examined his new work. Certainly it was
larger and shinier than his previous attempts, but he wondered if it
would behave the same way. With a sigh he tapped the keys once more,
and characters fitted into their natural roles. There were debonair
steamboat entrepreneurs and gritted men, ashen with factory dust.
Vampire lords skulked the shadows, hunted by sellswords and paladins
alike, while peasant armies fought for their feudal masters. Animals
and wild men mingled with one another, both hunted by the social
elite of developed nations. Wolves howled in the snow, and people of
frost eked out sustenance in the ice. Fleets of spaceships flitted
in the black gaps, porting here and there in cities which teemed with
life both familiar and unusual.
Pleased with the new design, Writer leaned contentedly within the
bridge of his colossal vessel. It was his new mountain from which he
would scatter the pompous lives of those below with but a few flicks
of his fingers.
Then things were as they always had been. Story unfolded just as
its predecessor had. The paint was new, sure, but the walls were the
same. Writer watched, seething, as the fantastical lives below
surged forth with hope. He shook his head and clasped together his
hands. He had strived for as long as he could remember and wanted
for only one thing. For them to fail as he had.
Fingers trembling with rage hovered over a panel. The keys upon
which mattered not, only his intent did. He depressed the inputs,
cursing under his breath. He would throw everything he had at them,
if it would only change Story into something new.
There was a terrible barrage, as the cannons
of his ship unleashed unreasonable payloads upon the world below.
The atmosphere peeled back, clouds scattering like ripples in a still
pond. New clouds of dust and fire rose up, rapidly decaying
mushrooms. Writer grinned at the devastation.
On the surface was ruin. The gleaming utopias, the verdant
gardens, all were buried in ashes and desolation. Static characters
were lost, those without names or real purpose, and so too were even
a few with names. Their deaths meant, for simple sake, weight. Yet,
the truly meaningful ones remained, resolute, hopeful.
He sat back and ground his teeth. If they were so determined to
persevere, he would be sure to make it difficult.
|