When the Author would write, he would start with the smallest of things. A letter. That is all. A letter, insignificant on its own, but when combined with other letters, he could craft the most beautiful words. Like a tailor he would select the perfect material, carefully cutting the alphabet and finely stitching it back together until it formed a perfect prose. These words would then become phrases and these phrases became paragraphs, the paragraphs became pages, then chapters and finally, after all his toil, a book was born.
He was the author of many subjects. He contemplated love and considered lust, he wondered about freedom and deliberated on truth, he mused over beauty, brooded on sorrow and reflected on life. Until one day, when the words stopped coming and his fingers cramped up and the stitches he had sewn began to tear and all his good work came undone.
No more books were born.
It was the death of the Author and he knew it. After a time of great sadness and bitterness, of falling to his knees and crying to the sky, “Why?!” The Author sat alone in his darkened room, lit only by the dying ash, as he took the last drag of his cigarette and thought, No more.
He knew then that he had only one last tale to tell, it was a story he did not want to write, but he was resolved that its time had come. So with useless hands and a heavy heart, he gathered rope, and a stool and took to his highest beam. His once nimble fingers, facilitators of his trade, his only true talent, began knotting the rough-hewn thread, all the while the tears streamed down his cheeks.
This is it, he thought, this is my final story. He placed the rope around his neck, then took from his pocket the tools of his trade. A small scrunched up piece of paper and a pen, on which he took a moment to inscribe his final tome. With all the sadness in his heart, he gathered his strength and he kicked the stool from beneath his feet.
Gravity claimed him. He went rushing to the floor, but the rope would have none of it as it jerked him back with suddeness. After a moment of struggle, his mind ascended, leaving behind a being, limp and expiring, until the Author stilled. Lifeless. The pen dropped to the floor, but the note, filled with the air and the grace of its contents descended slowly, floating, twirling, dancing mournfully to the floor where it lay still and quiet. Glassy, dead eyes stared on it from above, looking but not reading, the Authors final work. I am the author of death.
Created: Aug 18, 2012Stuntgirl83 Document Media