The Writer
by Isaac Wilde
Screams
filled Aedon Palace that night, the pained screams of the dying and the
anguished screams of the assorted Family, and the shouts of befuddled servants
running around in the dark. The screams emanated from an extravagantly
furnished bedroom at the very top of the massive, white marble castle keep.
Lying
on his bed was decrepit form of King Markom, his wrinkled and sunken eyes
closed. He was close to dying, and his voice was horse from crying out as pain
passed through him. But his nerves were spent, and his body couldn’t even feel
itself failing.
Suddenly,
the King’s eyes flashed open, revealing electric blue irises, and with a raspy
whisper he said:
The
writer paused, reflecting for a minute on what the King would say. The next
sentence would establish his story, and he wanted to make it spectacular. He looked
out the window of the small secluded cabin he lived in, and watched the silt-filled
waters of Lake Rust lap against the shores of his island.
He
looked up, an idea bouncing around his head. He turned and placed his fingers
on the keyboard of his laptop, one of two modern appliances in the cabin. The
other was a dilapidated phone, which lay lopsided in its cradle.
He
began to tap out the first letters of the Kings last words. - And with a raspy
whisper he said, “The power, oh, the power burns. It’s made me older, older
than I am. Make sure… Make sure that They don’t get it, and warn my son. Warn
him that it hurts.”
Suddenly,
the area around the King’s heart began to glow warmly. His eyes began to lose their
fervor, his face began to calm. The light shot up from his chest, refracting
and bending to create a small, diamond-shaped object. A small hum echoed
throughout the bedchamber. Then, the strange illumination dulled, and a small
crystal appeared on the King’s chest. The King let out a horrible, shuddery
sigh, and lay still.
The
noblemen and women surrounding King Markom’s bed gasped as they realized that
their beloved King was dead. A tall man with brown hair and an expansive beard
stepped forward. His name was Askel Danilo, the leader of the Northern Tribes.
He snatched up the mysterious diamond that had formed over the King’s heart.
“The
King is dead. His claim over the Northern Tribes has died with him. My people
need my presence,” Askel said, a little
louder than necessary. The small crowd parted around him as he made to step out
of the door.
Erik Anton, the King’s son, no more than
seventeen or eighteen, placed himself in front of the hulking Northman. “The
King is not dead. I am now King, and the Northern Tribes and the diamond in
your hand are mine.”
“Step
aside, boy.” Askel said, walking past Erik. Erik stopped him with a hand, which
was, although less so than Askel, very muscular.
“Obey
your King, Danilo. I am the rightful ruler.” Erik said, defiantly.
“I
will not kneel to a child.” Askel said, and shoved Erik aside. Askel walked out
of the oaken door, slamming it with a resounding crash behind him.
Erik
angrily whipped a tear of frustration, guilt and sadness from his eye. His
beloved father was dead, the nobles refused to obey him, and the diamond,
obviously meant for him, had been stolen by Askel.
Quissa
Autria, the old King’s wrinkled advisor, rested an ancient hand on Erik’s
shoulder. “My lord, I still have many years left to my name. I can help you
reclaim your birthright, your throne. We will take back the Northern Tribes
again.”
The
writer stopped, satisfied with the start of his story. He saved it, and decided
to stop writing for the day. He would let the story continue in his head, and
spend tomorrow writing vigorously. He snapped down the lid of his laptop, a new
model that he had ordered a week ago, and had only just finished transferring
the files to yesterday. The ad for the laptop had said it would help make your
writing come real, and the writer had bought it instantly. The writer stepped
over to the coat rack, and began to prepare for a hike.
But,
before he could even zipper his down jacket, the phone rang. He checked the
caller I.D. Emergency Number. He picked it up, worriedly. A machine began
playing, and he almost put it down. But then the words the machine was saying
registered.
“Attention
all American citizens. The President of the United States has died. The vice president, Tonan Riek, has taken control. As our government was in
momentary confusion, the northern states of the U.S. have formed their own
country, called the United Northern States. The revolt was led by Kelsa Linoad,
who is now the president of the United Northern States.” The computer voice
whirred and clicked, and the message repeated itself again.
It
was an impossible happening, the writer thought. Half of the U.S. doesn’t just
get up and leave! And why on earth would they have any cause to? The writer
hadn’t heard anything about discontent in the northern states. But then,
something in his brain clicked together, and with a jolt he unscrambled the
letters in Kelsa Linoad. Askel Danilo. And then, he unscrambled the letters in
the vice president’s name. Erik Anton.
The
incredulity of it all was dazzling. He turned towards his computer, where the
opening words of his story were sitting, innocent. How could his words have
done so much damage to the country he loved so much? It was impossible. It had
to be a coincidence.
But
he still flipped up the screen of the computer. Before he rashly deleted his
story, hopefully undoing the disaster, he wanted to experiment. The writer
typed up a quick paragraph about rain, wondering if it would start to rain
outside.
The
rain pelted the small cabin, the bloated shores of the Lake lapped at the
wooden planks. Lightning strikes shone far in the distance, the roar of the
thunder deafened the man inside the cabin.
The
water seeped inside.
The
writer stopped as water began to lap at his feet, and onslaughts of water
rushed through the door. The door crashed inwards, and the writer became
smothered in water. Caught without air in his lungs, he soon found himself
short of breath. Desperately, he flailed at the keyboard of his computer. He
pressed a button, and watched as all of his writing; stories of creation,
destruction, governments, history, the future, all get deleted.
As
each story goes, so goes what it was about. First the water left, without a
trace of it ever having been there. The writer sucked in a grateful breath, but
then his cabin disappeared, and he saw that the lake has dried up as well. Then
the trees disappeared, and then the sun and the crescent moon, and then the
now-visible stars begin to wink out. The ground beneath his feet disappeared,
and the writer floated in nothing, with only his laptop. But the computer
deleted the last file, and then the writer vanished.