Creator.

A very short story for the new generation of ADD readers. Probably inspired by my recent binge on reading Lovecraft and various Japanese writers with their themes of mutability.

There once was a boy who did not have any friends. He had his family, his food and his shelter, all the physical things a boy could ever need, but there was gnawing void within his heart. One day this boy, fed up with his consistent isolation and unable to grasp a reason for it, created his own world. He made up people, gave them names, made up places, gave them names, made up stories, gave them names. He was like a God to those of his own world, instead of a lowly person in a world ruled by a cruel God - which he must be, to have left the boy feeling so despondent and desperately alone.

Then, one day, as the boy had just finished a fantastical story in which one of his people built something amazing and fruitful and good for the sake of the town, only to be eventually corrupted by his own power and annihilate almost everything, the boy made a friend. He wasn't a very good friend, but the boy didn't care because this boy was willing to be his friend. And so, over the course of time he came to think less and less about the world he created, and moreso about his friendship and how it related to the world outside. Leaving behind his title of lone master of a Universe for a comparitively menial role in the real world didn't make logical sense to him, but it felt right. There was something that the subjects of his world couldn't give him, something that they lacked horribly, which ultimately made him feel devastatingly more alone when he came out of his trance and realized that none of them were real to anyone but him, no matter how hard he had wished them to be.

Eventually this world was forgotten. The boy made more friends, grew up, and left behind all that he had created, scantly giving it a thought whilst his head rang full of bustling ideas. Money and women, and the act of balancing them with the rest of his life, seemed to take up most of his cognitive function. Many years past, and the boy turned into a man who turned into a married man who turned into an old married man, with children and grandchildren and so on. By degrees he became sickly, some said even demented in his old age, especially after the loss of his wife. There, sitting in his bed, he seemed to no longer recognize the faces of his children, and even the hints of recognition were hazy and wrong, as he often mistook his grandchildren for his children. Unaware of time, he regressed not unwillingly into the dusty regions of a world he had so long ago created. The people there had aged none, and awaited his instruction, his direction, his narrative, his creation. He lamented whatever it was that had kept him so long from such important duties as that of maintaining his own universe, and become more inwardly focused as each day passed. On the day his body fell listless and unmoving, to the dismay of some shadowy figures of which he was now unaware, he managed to push out the word "pencil" from his lips. Taking the writing utensil in his shaky, withered hand, he wrote: "I will always be with you, I created you, and a creator cannot die."

Author's Note

Just looking for any and all feedback, thanks.

Reviews

[Yori Kisho]

I like this story, likely because I'm something of a creator myself - aren't we all? Moreover, while it is short, it's also powerful, and the style reminds me of legends and tales passed down through generations. There isn't a lot of detail, but it includes what's needed to tell the tale. Overall, it's good writing and a great story. :3