Short Story: Creation

Creation. The act of bringing into existence that which did not exist. Something out of nothing. Many have wondered why he did it. What purpose did it serve to create numerous lives, each subsumed in their own little worlds, each inextricably entangled in human emotion? Why bring into existence those whose lot it was to suffer? Why must all his creations relive the same tumultuous succession of emotions over and over again? Each living the same old story.

Stories. That was really what life was all about. Everyone wanted their life to be a story; a story with themselves as the hero; a story with a bit of drama, some romance, lots of thrills and spills, plenty of fun and laughs, hopefully only minor tragedies, and fleeting pain. But not every story has a happy ending.

But create multitudes of stories he did, and all with his pen. On the canvas of paper he painted lives with ink. Creating a character whose fate was to remain forever unloved just so that his grief could provide a contrast for the happier stories of other characters. Evil villians, that toyed with trust, driven by self and lust, hungry for egotistic pleasures. Na├»ve fools that believed, hoped, lost, yet trusted again, only to be used again. And each of these characters intruding into each other’s worlds through the fiery threads of emotions. The flash of unbearable happiness, the warm glow of love, smoldering passion, a flicker of hope, the darkness of heartbreak, simmering envy, the incinerating hatred, the blaze of affection.

For the past two years, he had poured his heart out into creating this tale. To make room in his head for the many characters and their many lives he had shrunk his own being to occupy as little of his thoughts as possible. Whatever he felt, he felt for his characters, his creations; he felt their joys, sorrows, anguish and defeats. Today he could set them all free. He had finished his work, and they would no longer haunt his every moment. He could feel for himself again.

His work was going to be published. Unknown strangers in distant lands would read it. They would become a part of the characters he had created, just as he had once been a part of them. Would they wonder why he wrote what he did? Would they ask what made him write it the way he had done? Would they seek him out to know his reasons? It wouldn’t matter even if they did. For he was a ghostwriter.

Comments

  1. It's a beautifully written post :) Really comes from the soul of a writer.

    "On the canvas of paper he painted lives with ink." Brilliant!

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  2. Arslan, this is brilliant..u're just getting better and better with every story u write..

    I miss your comments on my blog tho'..and please, blog more often na..I love the way u have of describing the people in ur stories..its like the words swirl around to reveal the bare bones of the story..

    and the endings..they're more subtle, less dramatic now and I like them that way.. :)

    I have to say it again..bloody brilliant!

    P.S. I know what a ghostwriter is, without having to wiki it! :P

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  3. @Shivya: Thanks a lot :)

    @Tangled: I always like your comments more than my posts. :) As I've commented on your blog, have been a bit busy (read lazy) to blog. Gimme a few days, and I'll hopefully be back with posts and comments.. :)

    And whatever weird crap I write, I know I can look forward to your comment. So, thanks a lot for that :)

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  4. And you say that I write stories with mean endings!

    It is wonderfully written.

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  5. @Divinite: This hardly compares to killing babies!! And thanks :)

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