An author’s indulgence (In the story at last)

The train dropped him off in the forest. It was a long trip, but he doesn’t mind that much. Except everyone kept shoving him. He couldn’t see any of their faces, but it was annoying. It took some energy not to get off too early, but he controlled himself. The forest was too good to miss. It is peaceful and large, and goes on for miles and miles. It snowed yesterday and it’s snowing now, light fluffy snow coasting to the ground. The circle of trees are topped with frost and sunshine, though it’s getting darker now. His footsteps make tiny imprints in the white cotton as he walks around, at peace. A bird chirps distantly and the air smells slightly like smoke from a warm fireplace. He puts his tongue out, tasting the cold snowflakes. The cold doesn’t reach him though, not yet. His plush blue coat keeps him warm.

   Do you see it? The circle of trees. The white snow. The smoke. We’re right here with him. You can see him there, smiling at the sky. Tall, dark and handsome. Just about your age, maybe a little older. He likes to read and crack jokes, and when he smiles one side of his mouth tilts up. He would like you, I think. The boy can’t see us, but we can certainly see him. He’s right there, just as I described. Playing in the snow. Hello there.

   The boy looks around now, confused. He can hear me when I write in italics. He can hear you too, but not well. He can feel if you poke him. Go on, do it. 

   He jerks around, his smile gone. He looks into the dense woods, looking for wolves or bears. Maybe it was a particularly heavy bit of snow.

   “Hello?” He calls out, confused, “Who is it?” Poor guy. I almost feel bad. He’s shivering now, but not from the cold. He thinks that he’s going crazy. The boy is turning around more frantically now, like a dog chasing its tail. He’s running and calling out. “Hello! Hello! Hello! He-“ He stops suddenly chastising himself for acting crazy. Not crazy. Just mine.

   Your presence is getting stronger as we watch. You are peeking out from behind a tree, looking at him from a distance. It may feel strange to see your surroundings shift like that, but you don’t mind. You have gotten used to it, you’ve read a few books in your life. Unlike you, though, the boy can’t leave whenever he looks up from the page. Go on, do it. Come back soon.

   So you’re peeking out from behind the tree. He sees you. He sees your hair is swaying slightly in the wind. He is more confused. I think it’s time to have some fun.

   Do you see it, boy? You are baffled, that isn’t hard to see. You clutch your head now, trying to will out my voice. It won’t work.

   “Who are you!” He screams now. His face is angry. Stay with me, let’s blow his mind.   

   Who am I, you ask? Let me ask you a question in return. Who are you?

   He tries to speak, but can’t. He doesn’t know. What do you know, boy? Where do you come from? Who ARE you?

   I apologize for shouting. 

   Are you enjoying this? You feel bad for him? No, I know. You want to watch his reaction. Ah, I knew you were a bit sadistic. Come, let’s see.

   He’s shaking. All he knows is what I’ve told him. He knows that he is tall, dark and handsome. He knows he likes to read. But he doesn’t know what is outside this forest, this set I’ve painted for him. He clutched his head again, talking quickly. “I- I don’t know. I don’t know who I am. I know I like to read. I know I came from a crowded train, I know...” He trails off, looking for me, I think. He can look all he wants. We are both of us beyond his reach.

   “You know, don’t you? You know who I am, what I like. Who my family is. Tell me.” His eyes are pleading, and he’s kneeling in the snow, hands clenched together as if in prayer. When I don’t give an answer, he stands suddenly. “WHO AM I, you goddamn spirit! Where am I how, how-“ He breaks down, curling on himself. “How did I get here? Why do I like to read? What does tall, dark and handsome mean…”

   He is fully crying, his tears freezing on his flushed cheeks. His head is in his hands and he screams in anguish at my silence. “ANSWER ME! Who was that, that person. Behind the trees. I just want to talk, please, please just let me talk to someone. I’m so… TALK TO ME. NOW!”

   He’s making me angry. I owe him nothing. Do not speak, now. Let me.

   Do not speak to me like that. I am your master, your creator, your author. I control you, and you will show me respect. I write your future!

   Understand this: I have a firm hold on your emotions as well. I am a god in your hands. I can make you love this boy like no other. I can make you cry with him and laugh with him and then I can slaughter him for no reason at all. I can turn the snow red with his blood and have you weeping as he struggles to speak one last time but can’t. I can give him magic powers and then make him kill everyone he has ever loved. I can create a character for him to fall in love with in body and soul, then turn her against him and say she hates him. I can make him lonely, so lonely it will hurt your soul, leave him to wander the forest for his whole life and never find any pleasure in it. I can make you despise him so much you scream at the pages, then give him a character change so sharp it’ll give you whiplash. I can make you hate me, and I can be your hero. I am a god in your hands.

   He is not humbled. Your poor little character is strong. He wants to leave this place, this purgatory I have made. He gets up and runs, runs so fast he trips in the snow and his chin is dashed with blood, but he gets up. He runs and runs and runs but he doesn’t get anywhere because there IS no anywhere. This is the only place that exists here. You will be miserable here, wretch.

   A tree falls from above with a crack. It descends on him, but he runs past. Just as he does, a pack of wolves growl from the shadows. Their yellow eyes seem to pierce him. They stalk towards him, white coats bobbing. He grabs a torch from the ground, ignoring the fact that it hadn’t been there a moment before. He waves it at them, but they don’t back down. He’s scared, so he throws the torch at the pack and runs. I hurl lightning at him, and he dodges.

   I’m just having fun now.

   I set the snow on fire and let it surround him. The smell of smoke sickens him, like the smell of his burning hair, which is just long enough to curl past his ears. The fire is extinguished all at once, but the landscape has changed. He looks not at a snowy forest, but a beautiful meadow, lush with trees and grass and warmth. The sun shines on his cold skin and he turns his head to the sky. Let’s give him a few minutes here. Let things calm down a bit.

   Take a breath. I’ll take one too. Look past the screen for a second. Put it down. I’ll close my laptop. Let’s agree to come back soon.

   There, now, isn’t that better? The boy thinks so. I have been contemplating for a long time what kind of ending he will get. I can leave him in this meadow, sure, but what fun is that? Perhaps he can decide his own fate.

   Do you wish to stay? The boy looks up from his thoughts, looking a little bored. I know this type. He craves escape and adventure. He is what I made him. The boy shakes his head slightly. “It’s much better than that forest. I am glad to be free but… you said you were my god, my author? I wish for another story. One where wolves are extinct, maybe. Please.”

   I contemplate this. After everything I put him, and you, through I feel like I owe him this. You will get your story. Accept this apology. Stay here for a few moments more, I will think of something for you.

   Of course, you who reads, you know this isn’t so. This is his story. He has no soul, no life, no words of his own unless I give him some. You know this, then why are you saddened when he is harmed? Why are you happy when he gets his due? He only saw you once in the forest; he does not know you. Nor do I. I cannot tell if you closed the book when I told you to, I just trust that you did. I have no way of knowing. Same with this creature, this person, this ink in a screen. He is not a being no more than this book is alive. It does not breathe, it does not mourn. Most plainly, this meadow, that forest, this boy does not exist. A figment of both our imaginations. This story, as with all stories, is an elaborate illusion. 

You come here to escape. To live in another world where your problems don’t exist. To love characters like they are your friends, even though they are no one at all and will never be like anyone you meet. It’s a whole lot of wishful thinking and imagination. People think that readers are smart? No, they’re just always sad, but it’s better to cry over a fictional character than the deadline for your school paper. Above all, though, us readers are vigilant. We have lived a thousand lives and hold all of their knowledge. I know that I can trust you with this story, with my cruelty, with my abuse of power as an author. Using my ability to weave words and worlds out of air and computer keys to toy with your emotions. I know I can trust you because you understand.

   All that said, I think I will give him a story. He has grown into an interesting sort of creature, full of life and daring. I think something with a lot of action will be good for him. You will see him again, don’t fret. Plus, I feel bad for the wolves. And insulting readers everywhere.

   Forgive my indulgences. Now on with the stories.

* This “author” is a character in the story, not me. This is quite the fourth wall break.