The enthusiastic teenager wrote in his jotter. His fingers shook with barely contained frenzy as he hurried to capture the contents of his heart within the sheets of paper. No one would read his story willingly; his language was ‘unstructured,’ ‘juvenile’ and ‘politically incorrect.’ But his mother would wipe her hands dry on her apron as she stood over the porridge in the kitchen, read his ‘manuscript’ and beam: ‘my boy is going to be better than Charles Dickens!’
Charles Dickens was the only writer his mother knew.
The teenager’s story was of a boy who stared yawningly into his father’s face as his father read him a bedtime story. The boy, feeling his bladder constrict, begged to go take a piss. There, in the bathroom, he found his father dead, with his head chopped off and mounted on a pole. His father’s face, in death, was a leer. The boy turned around wordlessly, and returned to the bedroom, and found his father there still, smiling benevolently.
“Are you ready for the last chapter?” his father asked, and there the teenager’s story ended.
In the story of Coraline, the girl stared at her father, only he wasn’t her real dad. For her father had actual eyes, and this one had eyes of button. And in a corner, her button-eyed mother was whispering into her ear.
“Come, child. It is but a little prick. One prick, love, and you will have eyes made of buttons. Just like us. Look, you even get to choose the color of the buttons…”
And she fled…
Alice fled in pursuit of the impatient rabbit with a watch, and fell into the rabbit hole and drank a potion that made her tall. Nay, it made her huge.
Ginormica, at first, was a normal girl. Then the asteroid fell in her backyard and she became infused with unobtanium, which made her a giant weirdo girl who, to save the earth, had to battle an alien octopus.
But then, there was the octopus who was fed up with the cheery silliness of his next-door neighbor and work colleague. The octopus’ name was Squidward.
Dr. Octopus, flung Spiderman for the umpteenth time into a tired building, and it fell apart. Things Fall Apart, a Nigerian author wrote, of a man who would later have a grandson not unlike himself in being strong-willed and proud. History repeats itself, the author seemed to be saying, and it didn’t matter if you spent your pastime rolling bones before the gods or if you had a Western Education.
The writer sits, pen poised, ready to conjure up a universe absolutely under his spell, where he can play God. A flick of a pen here, and the protagonist dies, depending on the writer’s mood. The protagonist finds true love, or falls prey to cancer, wins the battle, or loses the war, on the whim of the writer.
Yet the writer suffers too, for his creation mirrors his imperfections, their tragedies are not theirs but his, and as his mind spews creativity, the world applauds or jeers accordingly, but it is he who is, ultimately, accountable for every occurrence in the history of his little book characters.
In an utterly fantastic world, there exist characters living daring lives. Princesses and aliens, dragons and secret agents, zombies and vampires, living happily or dying miserably, depending on the hand of he who is poised over the pages.
Over their world.
I am TheVunderkind, and I am a Creator.
(This was originally written here)