A writers standpoint.
Starting from the end always helps.
(How it feels writing the Samaritan in the form of a short story.)
“You never did know how to write me, did you? All this time writing other people’s stories has left you numb to mine. You use the guise of incomplete perfection to excuse yourself from putting pen to paper and finishing my story. Even now, when we stand face to face, you could never write me a fulfilling story.”
My son said to me, with a bittersweet tone and posture. I look at him pitifully.
“Of all the amazing and terrible people I’ve written, You always stood above the rest. It was truly a burdenful and wonderful task to bring you to the life you had.”
I told him with sincerity. He saw my face and thought it was all but hogwash. He moved his hand across my desk, which was littered with papers and pens, all which held a story or a small part of one. To him however those were his flesh and blood, and the parts of others he’d never meet. A heart there and a bit of soul there. All represented to us as a page, with blood written letters. All stories I could never quite bring myself to complete, lives that simply swayed in the balance of time due to my unhealthy attachment to them. They sat there in negligence as I only added to the pile, making them jealous and incomplete, forgotten in time and discarded with little care as my passion towards them soon felt like a chore. What an unfair relationship it is between an author and his design?
I shed a tear at the sight of it all, as did my son, but only because I wrote him to do so. Without me he was actionless and tethered to the world the same as the others, though I had not written a single one of his stories as such. In his first act he outsmarted his enemies many times, he and Sarah Kennedy soared through the heavens in his ship made of magic and bliss without a care in the world. He used his tricks and gadgets to aid himself in deadly combat and used unethical medicines to recover. He was a pure genius that I had left to rot, and this hurt my soul.
In my heart I knew he was too aware to be kept tethered, too insightful to be quiet like the others who knew only what I wrote for them. And so I picked up a lone page for him, and him alone, and brought my pen to my hand. With a smile I looked at him, finally ready to give him the freedom he craved for so long.
His Story.
He, my son, looked at me with an eager smile. Excited by what lies ahead. He was surely nervous deep down, but excitement coursed through him. I know it did. Because it flowed through me too.
“After all this time, I hardly know where to start.”
I tell him with a chuckle as a tear rolls down my cheek.
“Well in my experience, starting from the end always helps.”
He tells me with a warm smile.
Thanks for reading I guess.