The process.

Maybe I could do a superhero story? I think as the vision of tall winding towers looms over the bright gray streets of a city block. Cars drive across the streets as a superhero of white and blue flies above the clouds. Impossi-man slowly falls to one of the rooftops. The skies blackened as his villain appeared in a cloud of black smoke. No that's stupid, people would just look down on me for writing dumb superhero power fantasies.

How about a horror story? Yeah, I could do that, horror never gets old! The visions of the city swirl away, reshaping into a musty swamp with damp vines waving from the trees. Pollen stains the river which is hidden from the night sky by a blanket of foul green. A nervous protagonist roams the land becoming more and more disgusted by each sickening squelch that splatters from under his boot.

Finally, he's had enough, the cryptid he's searching for obviously isn't here and he can't take another moment of being out here in the muck. An almost inaudible splash sounds from behind. He slowly turns to see a head popping out of the water. Its mossy face peers at him with two beady red eyes. No, that's too cliché, I think as a figurative hand appears wiping away the portrait I just painted.

Oh, I got it! A suburban street builds its way over the blank canvas of my mind. Homes pop out of the ground as a group of kids bike their way across the street. The sun sits perched just above the horizon waiting to tumble down below the surface of the earth. The children pedal faster, desperate to make it home. They hear the engine of a rusted black van howling behind them and getting closer and closer until finally, it swerves in front of them blocking their way. Two men wearing all black step out with their hands in their pockets. The next day police are all over the neighborhood trying to find the missing kids. Again too cliché, that one wasn’t creative at all. Besides, if I'm gonna do a crime story, I might as well make it a crime thriller. 

The world in my head reforms again. This time the world begins with a character sitting in a car and the story expands out from him. The rain was always comforting for him. It’s consistent, unchanging, and unfeeling. Yet it's also soft and tender in a way he didn’t quite know how to describe. Tonight was a different story; the world was staying still. The rain, despite being as consistent as ever, feels somehow hesitant tonight. He looks at the warehouse, its white metallic walls giving off an ominous air of dread. The children were last seen here. His shaking hand pulls the keys out from the ignition as he slowly steps out of the vehicle. I don’t even know where I would go with that. I’ll try one more and then I’ll call it a day.

The monochrome street lights pour light out along the snowy highway, lighting up the path the detective had dreaded. The path to his old life, a city filled with only disdain for its citizens. A city where the police's loyalty was sold to the highest bidder and the people who tried to fight back were left cold and alone on the street with their wrists slashed, their blood mixing with the snow as an ominous warning to those who tried to resist. The twinkling white spots fluttering around in the wind contrast with the black, looming skyscrapers that had an all-seeing dystopian aura to them. 

 As each light passed over him he could feel his heart begin to thump faster and faster. 

Bile rose in his stomach and he could feel memories of his past life here wriggling their way back to the focus of his consciousness. He tried to push them back to the dark crevices of his mind where he had kept them locked up for so long. I don’t know, I’ve read way better intros than that. Maybe I’m not good enough for this kind of story. Am I good enough for any kind of story? 

As I think, the world in my head reshapes itself to visions of a dreadful future and my inevitable failure; I would fail as an author, and the stories I had held so dear would be swept aside by the masses. I would never become anything noteworthy and end up living a simple, meaningless life. My worst fear would come true and the stories I created would die along with me. I take a deep breath, in and out. No that’s not true. I think to myself. I know I’m a good writer, I reassure myself. Small clouds of doubt still scatter my mind but most of them have been calmed or brushed away by that thought. 

Ok, let’s try all that again. The children bring their bikes to a screeching halt as the men step out from the rusted black van. They pull out their guns and command the children to enter the van. The next night the rain felt hollow. I hesitantly exit the vehicle unnerved by the strange stillness in the storm. The crowd had piled up on each other trying to get a glimpse at the site where the kids went missing. The mother of one of the children hurries over to me with a note in her hand. 

“Bring four hundred thousand dollars to the old abandoned warehouse, on the outskirts of town, or the kids get it.”

 I attempt to console the hysterical mother but she is far past the point of being calmed down. I leave the neighborhood and present the note to my superiors. It took a few days but eventually, I was given four hundred thousand in cash and sent on my way to the location of the warehouse. In the time it took from the kidnapping to now the air has become cold enough that now the rain has frozen over into snow. As each headlight passes over me an inexplicable feeling of dread festers and swells in my stomach. It grows more and more unbearable. Next to me I see the veil of frozen forest give way to an icy swamp. The stomachache forces me to turn off to the side of the road. I run over to a portion of the pond that wasn’t frozen over and release the contents of my stomach into the water.

The vomit circles and mixes with the cool water. I take a few moments to take in some deep breaths before hearing the sound of ice cracking open behind me. I turn around sharply. Two beady red eyes stare back at me, its head peeking just above the water’s surface. Two mossy green arms stretch out from the water and pull the beast’s body up. It stands at least eight feet tall with long gangly limbs. Its hulking body lumbers towards me stretching out its long mossy hand to grab my neck.

I blast up and away. The “thing” was blocking the way to my car so driving away wasn’t an option. Ahead of me, I see a white metallic warehouse. I run with every ounce of strength I can muster away from the thing. The warehouse gets closer and closer and I hear the thing howl behind me with an ungodly roar. I reach the warehouse and violently twist the doorknob. The door falls under my weight as I spill inside. The creature is just behind me grabbing one of my legs and pulling me back out to the swamp 

I kick at its fingers, breaking its hold before using my feet to kick the door shut. Metallic pounding booms from the other side for a while before the creature gives up. 

I gathered myself, pulling my body up and brushing myself off.

“Finally showed up huh?” A gruff voice says in a crude Australian accent. I look over quickly seeing two men in all black holding a gun to me with the children piled up behind them. “Now where’s the money.” He asks. I curse myself for leaving the money in my car. 

“It’s,” I pause, “Damn it,” I said under my breath praying for backup to arrive soon. 

“So you don’t have it? And you came alone? What a dumbass.” The man laughs. He holds up the gun, pointing it at my face. I wince, praying that I can somehow get myself out of this. A powerful boom rings out from above. The sound is like a fighter jet that had just pushed past the sound barrier. I smirk, knowing backup is finally here.

“I didn’t come alone,” I say as a superhero of blue and white blasts through the roof disarming the men in an instant and knocking them out cold. A sigh of relief fills the air like a melody from me and the rescued children. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t show,” I say. 

“Yes I apologize for the late time, my people needed me,” Impossi-man responds with a wink. We both laugh, as the children stare at us with hope and joy. Yeah, it’s a bit crude and cliché but it’s fun and silly. I think to myself. Maybe I’m better than I thought.