Playing God

Feeling down and gloomy, I returned home after that damned author meeting. Squealing women, drooling at the sight of me: "Mr. Jones, Mr. Jones, please explain , why Bruno can't be with Kate?" and "Will they get together, in the next part?" Not to mention the nerve-wracking, "Can I get an autograph?"

My work was adored by women, who were practically one foot in the grave. Probably , because their only chance at romance ,was dreaming about it, and no man was interested in the charms that had long since faded. Sure, I can still see traces of former beauty in them; they have that certain dignity, but this isn’t the kind of attention I seek. Not from women, whose only sexual thrill comes from reading harlequins, and who have chosen the author as their object of desire. Enough , with the ridiculous "Tales of Love" series. I feel unappreciated as an artist, misunderstood by society. My work has been buried, trampled on, and died unnoticed, only to end up in the hands of an audience that is like the silver tsunami of my life. Now is the time to create a true literary masterpiece. Something that will draw young women to me, and every person on this planet will know my name and quote the words I’ve poured onto paper - the fruits of my imagination. I won’t wait any longer. I’ll roll up my sleeves and get to work. I turned on my desk lamp, the one I love writing by the most, and sat at my desk, more determined than ever. I glanced out the window, searching for inspiration. Passing cars, people crossing the street. Come on, Tim, strain your brain.

I began:

"It was a warm summer evening. Billy didn’t expect that his return home would be interrupted by a fender bender. While crossing the street, he was hit by a red car..."

Suddenly, I hear a horn and a crash. I look out the window again and see a red car hit a pedestrian.

"Amazing," I thought, "But is it possible?"

"To make matters worse, as Billy lay on the street, likely with a broken ankle, a torrential downpour began."

And at that moment, it started to rain.

"Holy crap," I muttered in astonishment. "I can't believe it, this is impossible."

Than I continued writing:

"The rain, however, lasted only for a short while, just enough to drench Billy completely, as he was stuck in a large puddle. Then, as if nothing had happened, the sun came out, and a rainbow appeared in the sky."

As soon as I lifted the pen from the paper, the rain stopped, the sun came out, and a rainbow appeared.

I couldn’t believe it. I mean... now I can do anything! I need to hurry , before my superhuman powers vanished as suddenly as they appeared.

So, I created a new scenario:

"Tim went out for his morning coffee at the Starbucks on the corner. The city was bustling, just an ordinary morning in New York. As he crossed the café's threshold, his eyes immediately fell on a stunning brunette sitting at a table by the window. She had beautiful, rare green eyes and alabaster skin, which together created an almost otherworldly combination. Moreover, when she smiled, revealing her shapely cheeks and pearly teeth, Tim nearly fainted. He was looking at the perfect woman. He longed to sit beside her, talk about poetry, take a walk in the park. Just everyday activities, trivial to some, but priceless to him. He shyly sat at the adjacent table, sipping his coffee calmly when suddenly he heard a soft clearing of the throat.

'Ahem, ahem. Would you like to join me?' the beauty asked."

I decided I didn't want to waste time on lengthy descriptions, so I condensed my dream into a simple phrase:

"Coffee, walk, passionate sex."

Excited, I went to bed, eagerly awaiting the morning. When the sun finally rose and the longed-for hour struck, I rushed to Starbucks. She was there.

Everything went according to the script. After we indulged ourselves, I sent her home, concluding that if I ever felt like it, I could just write about her again and we’d meet. Now I had to focus on my career, making sure that my creative inspiration exploded within me.

"I must hurry before this golden fish era ends," I thought.

It was a plot of my future life:

"Tim wrote a saga that brought him immense success. No more writing cheap, unprofitable romances. Young people adored him; he became their idol. They couldn't take their eyes off his books, eagerly following his every move and waiting for the next part of the saga to be released. As a highly successful author, Tim became the proud owner of a red Ferrari, which made a lot of noise, and a house that resembled a palace."

Within six months, all my wishes came true, as if touched by a magic wand. It was as if someone had breathed life into lifeless words. I felt wonderful, finally fulfilled. But over time, fame began to wear on me, especially the swarm of annoying paparazzi. So, I decided to remove them from my life and only appear on magazine covers when I chose to.

This is what I wrote: 

"Any nosy paparazzo who approached Tim would collapse, lifeless. After a while, none of them dared to photograph moments from his life."

And in this way, I had a moment's respite from those curious beasts. However, my peace didn't last long. Just as my success had been unrivaled so far, a new competitor emerged on the scene - Chad Morgan. A fantasy author who became dangerously popular. His fame started to overshadow mine, so I decided to do something about it.

"Chad Morgan is terminally ill. A brain tumor has caused his vision to deteriorate, unfortunately ending his writing career. Meanwhile, Tim released the next part of the saga, 'The Royal Anthem,' once again rising to the top of the literary world."

My wish was the command - once again, everything came true. I had no guilt; I felt like God, and after all, God brings suffering to people too. I believe that in my place, anyone would have done the same. Well, maybe a small portion of humanity would have eliminated evil, death, and hunger in the world, but I chose to be selfish. I went to the Maldives to take a break from all the noise and fame - after all, I deserved some rest. There was a beautiful girl sitting at the restaurant bar, so I decided to take her for myself.

"Tim flirts with the beautiful, long-legged brunette at the bar."

And nothing.

"Damn, it's not working."

I tried again, in a different way.

"The girl sitting at the bar smiles at Tim, inviting him for a chat."

Nothing happened.

"Maybe I should approach her?" So I did.

"Good morning, how are you?"

"Better before you came over."

"Damn, she brushed me off." I walked away, embarrassed.

It turned out that this was just the beginning of my downfall. When I returned to New York, I tried to summon my writing muse, but all my attempts failed. My mind was completely blank, as if someone had drained my brain, stripped it of all its functions, shamelessly robbed it of imagination. Then came the crushing news: Chad Morgan emerged unscathed after chemotherapy and was returning to writing. The brain tumor had vanished. 

Karma had come back to bite me - I was now a forgotten star, listening to the sarcastic remarks of paparazzi. All that remained were author meetings with representatives from the University of the Third Age, where I would talk about the next installment of The Fates of Love. My star had briefly shone, but like all others, it had to fade into the vastness of the universe and disappear, forgotten.