Unwritten

A slammed hand on my desk shakes me out of the gray, featureless landscape of my thoughts.

“Perd.” The growl in my boss’s voice is unmistakable.

My fingers on the bluescript pitter-patter to a stop. I tuck my arms in, chin resting on my hand, and brace myself for the oncoming lecture.

“What,” he swats a file onto the screen, “in God’s name is this?”

I give it a cursory glance. “The court records from Tuesday?”

“Really? Are you sure?”

I bite back the urge to introduce my fingers to his eye sockets. “I believe so.”

“Well, I don’t know what courtroom you were sitting in on Tuesday, because I don’t recall Judge McAvoy not possessing a face.” He zooms in on the black-robed figure perched on his podium, and furiously taps the blank orb of Judge McAvoy’s head.

“They’re all bald old men, anyway,” I mumble under my breath. The furrow between his eyebrows deepens, and I quickly interject with something a bit more reasonable. “We’re the only scribing company that even includes these details – Mementus just phased them out because the courts thought it was unnecessary, and it allowed them to cut down on rendering costs-”

“Mementus phased them out because their rendering couldn’t even begin to compete with ours. But this?” He taps through different aspects of the record, pinching and prodding at my work. “A high school scribe could have shit this out in an hour. Barely any definition on the witnesses, minimal body language, half the attendees missing, and you even forgot to include the defendant’s tattoos.”

I look away. He’s right.

“This is not acceptable. Not for this project, not for Capio, and especially not for you.” His tone softens and it feels like acid. “You went through a huge setback, but I know what you’re capable of-”

“Brand.” I grit out. “Don’t. Please.” I take a deep breath, fists clenched beneath my desk. “I’m sorry. I’ll fix everything up by the end of the day.”

After a pause, he nods. “Do better.” He swipes the file off my screen and strides off.

---

I’m still thinking about the pity in Brand’s voice by the time I leave the office. Actually, I’m trying my hardest to not think about it – which, of course, only digs it deeper into the impressionable goo of my cortex. Head down, I side-step someone loitering slightly too far into the sidewalk.

Behind me, I hear a soft “no way.”

God, please, let this not be what I think it is. I speed up, hoping to lose the rapidly approaching footfalls.

A bob of curly black hair and wide eyes pop into view. I stop and groan inwardly.

“Are you Perd? Perdita Pono?”

“Yes.” I forge ahead, doing my best to not completely knock over the vibrating mass at my side.

A low squeal assaults my left ear. “Oh eons, I cannot believe that I’m meeting a living legend. Right now. A master linguitect, right here, next to me, this is the coolest thing ever-”

I stop, again, and turn to face her.

smile, boiling over, in amazement, and the sun fractures against her hair, a shimmering halo, approaching the world not as an object, but a subject, subject to her curiosity, her persistence, a force of personality, darting, light on its feet-

I blink away my stream of consciousness – old habits die hard. “Do you want an autograph?” I ask in a flat voice.

“No. No, I mean yes! I mean, well, yes, of course, but that’s not the only thing I want, wow, that sounded really weird and demand-y, let me start over.” She sticks a hand out.

“My name is Kolani and what I meant to say is that I wanted to also ask you a few questions, if, you, uh, are comfortable with that. Please.”

I’m not – answering questions means reliving and remembering – but I’ve already pulled on that thread, mood soured.

I sigh, but nod and gesture for her to walk alongside me. “Knock yourself out.”

It’s a pretty run-of-the-mill fan interaction: questions about how I got into manustructing, how I came up with the idea for the Dynamo series, if I’m satisfied with its lasting legacy, if the main character ever manages to find his way back to the Hidden Realm to continue that conversation with the trapped spirit like he promised he would. Even after years of being out of the spotlight, I’m shocked at how easily the rehearsed responses come back to my lips.

You miss it, don’t you?

“Also, uh.” She looks down and almost trips over a nick in the sidewalk. “Since you're a reigning expert on writing... would you maybe consider… taking a student?” She quickly fiddles with her purse and scribbles something on a scrap of paper. "Here's my Tweeter handle - @kolanihani."

My mind spirals back to Brand’s words, back to my lost potential and unrealized ambitions. I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but that’s not really a practical goal for me at the moment.”

You don’t have any goals.

"Oh - I understand, you probably have so much going on! Thought I'd shoot my shot. Thanks anyway."

"It's not that. I'm flattered, but I have nothing to teach anymore."

Kolani stares at me, uncomprehending. “But you have so much wisdom and skill, and so many people look up to you! Like, I was asking for myself initially, just because I’ve always wanted to be a better writer, so it was kind of a selfish indulgence, but everyone could learn something from you!” Her hands shoot up, flailing emphatically. “Even if you just released a course series on SkillFill or something about your writing process, you’d have such a big audience.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I say, a little too stiffly.

She exhales, a short puff through her nose. “Ms. Pono… I don’t want to sound like a creep but I’ve kind of already dug that hole so, just – just know that I and a lot of other fans hope you’re doing okay and we miss you. Not just your work, but your online voice. Your advocacy, your collaborations, your vlogs. That sort of thing. But you haven’t been active anywhere for almost three years, and I know you haven’t, but to the public it sort of looks like you’ve just given up-”

“I have.” My voice lashes out, tight and caustic. “My career is over. The only way I can manustruct anything is by scribing and then having some soulless, shitty AI render the world for me.” My eyes bore into hers. “Of course I’ve given up. I know when I’m down for the count. Feel free to quote me on that.”

Kolani’s quiet for a moment, and I shift, prepared to walk away.

“You lost your Quill, but you didn’t lose your mind. That’s what made Dynamo, and that’s what makes you my role model. Not some arbitrary mark.”

Yeah? I feel like I'm losing my mind.

---

I slide a single-serve lasagna into the microwave and slam the door shut. As I wait, my fingers scratch absently at the underside of my left wrist.

I lift it to my face, as I’ve done hundreds of times, hunting for any sign of my birthmark.

But there’s nothing there.

When I was born, the Quill didn’t even matter all that much to me or my family. Some parents were obsessed with the idea of it – trying all sorts of tactics, from the dubiously scientific to the dubiously legal, to ensure that their child would be born with the blessing. They never understood how my parents could act so nonchalant about such an “honor”. We came under fire from the public eye multiple times, everyone eager to pass judgment on my parents’ refusal to enroll me in linguitect academies halfway across the world.

My mom stood adamant against them.

“Perd,” she would say, “your gift isn’t that you could be a great linguitect. It’s that you’re smart enough, strong enough, determined enough to be great at whatever you choose, so long as you stick with it.”

And for a while, other pursuits caught my attention. Dance was a big one, followed by percussion, then astronomy, then psychology.

I would manustruct too, of course. But it had always primarily been something personal, an intimate experience for few eyes other than mine. As a kid, I rendered countless “imaginary” friends for my parents to meet. A castle, perched on top of the clouds and surrounded by flying manta rays, was a favorite and oft-visited haunt of mine. Middle school sleepovers with me were slightly more interesting than usual, given that I could take us into the deep ocean as mermaids. And after a particularly bad breakup in high school, I locked myself in my room for a weekend, alternating between reliving good memories and constructing a universe where we were still together.

Dynamo had started out as another personal project, a way to organize and sort through my coming-of-age struggles, but in the rich, new universe of college, I had the resources and support to turn it into something more. Suddenly, I had a narrative that was intensely meaningful, not only to myself, but to millions of people across the world.

Ironic that the chemotherapy necessary to save my existence would rob me of the countless lives I had built within it.

In the kitchen now, standing, waiting for a tasteless meal, I close my eyes, drawing a breath deep into my abdomen. I pretend like I can still feel the swirl of energy beginning to build.

I visualize.

the sun, perpetually rising, caught hanging in the balance between sky and horizon, yellow tones, blending into rose, tripping over the clouds, soft beneath my feet, throw marble walls into stark contrast, towering, piercing a luminous sky, dotted with soaring figures, weaving between stars, calling, joyously, graceful, free-

I can see it so clearly. I can almost feel the breeze on my face. I open my eyes.

But there’s nothing there.

---

At first glance, Kolani’s Tweeter page is as overwhelming as her personality. There’s a sprawling collage of pastel and neon abstract art in the background, with accompanying Twits in all-caps. But interspersed in her feed are character models and stunning landscapes, advertising something called Ever After.

She’s a game developer, I realize.

As I scroll through her feed, her skill as a world-builder becomes more and more evident. The facial animations are fluid and natural, the environments artfully sculpted, the lighting absolutely divine. I can see individual raindrops glistening on the impermeable fabric of the main character’s outfit, skin glowing faintly in the dim lighting. A far cry from the type of rendering that Capio, even at its best, could produce.

My gaze lands on a series of Twits from about a week ago.

'GUYS YOU ARE NOT GOIGN TO BELIEVE THSI'

'I JUST MET'

'P E R D I T A. P O N O.'

'SHE’s EVEN COOLER IRL ;;_;;'

'god i wish i had her creativity…'

'don’t get me wrong, i love programming n i’m never going to stop doing this, but sometimes i wish i could be the one coming up with the ideas instead of just bringing them to life ya kno?'

'imagine me as a game designer lol'

'anyway please check out Ever After!! my team and i worked so hard on this, thank you SO MUCH for your support'

I click on the VAPOR link for Ever After, looking for its synopsis.

“There’s only one question that you need to answer in order to reach eternal paradise: did you live a good life? But ravaged by Alzheimer’s for over a decade, Anthony Graykis can’t remember. He’s given a deal: he’ll return to Earth as a guardian angel for a young boy, Lim, and be judged on his actions and intentions toward his ward. In this award-winning indie game, guide both Anthony and Lim through a complex, branching narrative, where your decisions will decide both of their fates.”

Play time: approx. 10 hours.

I check the time: 2:00 pm on a Saturday afternoon. I don’t have any other plans.

My curiosity grabs hold of me, and I download the game.

---

Lim’s hands shake. He’s a teenager, now.

“I feel like I’m losing my grip on everything.” Tears dot his eyelashes and he hurriedly scrubs them away. “I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know how you stand it.”

Anthony interlaces his fingers, sits quietly. “I’m really not sure if it’s a curse… or a blessing. I don’t remember what I’ve lost. Maybe that’s a tragedy, maybe it’s mercy.” His eyes are pensive, and he offers Lim a small smile. “But even after losing all of my memories, I didn’t lose all of myself. I still know how to carry on. Imagine that.”

---

As the end credits roll, I sit back, eyes stinging.

"Perdita," my mom whispers. I'm seventeen again, sobbing into my pillow, tired and frustrated and heartbroken, and she’s petting my hair. "It’s an ending. But it’s not your ending.”

My fingers find Kolani’s profile. I hesitantly draft a new message.

“Hi, Kolani. It was a pleasure to meet you last week – I hope I didn’t disappoint. Thank you for being such a considerate and enthusiastic supporter of my work. If you’re still interested, I think it’s time I came back to the world of writing, but from a fresh perspective. How would you feel about collaborating?”