The Making World

Prologue:

From the Journal of Professor S. K. Willowsmith

"Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say."

I looked up from the paper in my hand across the cluttered desk of pencil shavings and loose knick knacks at the disheveled lad sitting in a blue plastic chair with years of scratches on it. His face was sooty and scarred in a manner that matched the gray duster he wore, which in addition to the stains and gashes, appeared to be burnt in several locations.

The lad had neglected to wear a shirt. There were soot stains in four long streaks running down his chest. Around his neck was a rather interesting chain—a locket at the end of it that seemed to be giving off, or rather radiating, heat, yet it left no visible mark on the boy’s skin where lay.

"Yes, professor?"

I ignored his query and turned back to the page, continuing to read it aloud.

"In the year 2086, the crew of the Nostradamus…a mining vessel, found themselves far further…" I thought about pulling a red pen from the desk to make notes but decided to hold off for the moment, "...than they had ever found themselves from home. In the darkest room, left alone to her thoughts, lay a miner, who for the fifth time in as many hours, awoke from her pod. Only, this time, there was a reason."

I had to fight my face in its effort to shrivel up into a cringe induced scowl at that last sentence.

I continued to read about this miner. Nel Tripstovk was the only female in a crew of men who undervalued her contributions. Whole big thing about a monster born of volcanic orbs that proceeded to chew through the characters one by one forming a beast of flesh, blood, and stone.

I skimmed most of it, usually reading one or two of the words out loud before continuing to meander lazily through the dribble. Meanwhile, whether out of boredom or anxiety, the boy in the burnt trench coat began to wander around my office looking at the various clippings and trophies and plaques on the walls, commemorating the numerous awards I had achieved over the course of my career. He lingered on one in particular, a ratty, yellowed page from a local paper too old to recall.

I set the papers down on the desk in the clearest spot I could before folding my hands together and placing my index fingers on my glasses in a move my students knew all too well.

"Well?" the lad said.

I paused. Teachers are naturally good pausers. Well, not naturally. We learn how to get our students to sweat and build anticipation over years of practice. But it definitely feels natural.

"Darby," I said, after what I felt was a pregnant enough pause. I couldn't help but notice it had not caused him to sweat. Rather, he had taken a seat in the most stereotypical way (lounging sideways, one leg over the arm of the chair, scratching his unruly beard).

"Yeah, prof?" he asked.

I sighed and brought my hands down to rest on my belly, pursing my lips, feeling the rough texture of my vest, trying hard not to glance at the clock on my wall informing me of how soon I would be able to grab dinner on my way home.

"How…" I began. Darby stopped scratching and looked at me expectantly. No, not what I want to know. "Why…" Nope. Not the right question.

"What did you think of my story?" Darby asked, as he resumed his scratching. A nasty sound.

My eyes looked at the top page. It too looked worn and weary like Darby did. I rubbed my forehead gently feeling a bit of a stress headache creeping up.

"Darby," I began again, the question I had been searching for finally making its way to the forefront of my mind. "Where have you been?" Darby smiled through his mustache.

"What'd you think?" He asked again, ignoring my query. I tried to picture him from when I last saw him. He definitely was not like…this. Not this Hot Topic reject of a man. If I recall, he was fairly nondescript: jeans and a shirt, frizzy hair, flats on his feet. Don't even remember if there was a logo or anything. I think he had glasses? No. Maybe?

Not that I had anything against Hot Topic. Neither did Darby apparently, given his grunge look.

"I mean," I shrugged, rising and placing my hands behind my back. "I assigned this thing like, six weeks ago. The semester is already in its last leg, and you just showed up with this…thing?"

"I think it's my best work," he sniffed, pulling some gunk out from his nails.

"It's your only work," I retorted. Darby laughed as though this was funny. "And even if I were, it's…" I threw up my hands. "It was a one week rough draft. Write a story about a time you overcame an obstacle. It wasn't even a major assignment. It was a Week One paper that, if I'm being honest, I didn't intend to grade seriously. Just a way to gauge your writing talents before we started the real stuff. Which, as I said, you weren't here for."

His turn to shrug.

"So…"

I eyed him, trying to determine if he was being flippant. It was not clear to me why he wanted me to read this of all papers in the first place.

"Derivative. It's a retelling of Alien, complete with monsters that burst out of chests and a strong underestimated female protagonist. You even named the vessel the Nostradamus which is not exactly the same but close enough for copyright infringement."

He picked his nose and wiped it on his coat then sat in silence for a solid twenty seconds.

"Mine is not in space," he finally said, nodding.

"Yeah," I said, picking up the page. "About that. You started with 'in space' and then proceeded to describe going into the Earth to explore its molten center. So why did you start with this clearly cribbed space line?"

His eyes rose at that, and his body noticeably stiffened. The carefree attitude shifted to a nervous shake. It certainly was the reaction I had been going for, though I could not imagine why that had been the trigger.

"Lemme see that," he reached for the page. Reluctantly, I handed it back to him. He began to read to himself, and the sweat I had hoped to cause by way of pausing began to show. I held back a chuckle and began to pace, another thing we teachers do to elicit either attention or discomfort.

"Look," I said, placing my hands in my pockets and walking to the front of the room. "I'm sorry if I came off harsh, but as I said, you haven't been here for classes. I have 120 essays focusing on conflict resolution that I have been putting off for a week now that I need to grade. That," I gestured to his page which he was now flipping through rapidly. "Is not good work. It's a xerox of a xerox at best and even as a parody, it doesn't quite muster enough interest to finish it." He cast a glare in my direction but returned to his paper. "I already removed you from the roster." I turned my back to him, opening the door.

"This," he whispered. "Was my life's work."

"Wow," I said, the chuckle making its way out of my mouth. "Life's work? You copy some of the best storytelling in modern cinema and call it your life's work?" I walked over to the plaques he had been admiring only minutes before. "This is life's work. A life of practice and patience, of recognition, of," I paused again, taking intense pleasure in my words, "overcoming obstacles. That is fan fiction, and not a good one either." I waited for another moment, my chest filling with pride, justified by my works. "Now, I'm happy you are safe, but I do need my office back."

The pages continued to flip. I raised an eyebrow and looked back at my former student. He was still sifting through his "story."

"Darby?"

There was actual sweat dripping down his nose, dropping onto the page.

Flip. Flip. Flip.

"Darby!"

He looked up at me with genuine terror in his burnt face.

"I messed up," he whispered.

"Yeah, basic plagiarism," I sighed. "I'm not gonna report you to the dean or anything." I walked over to his shaking figure, resting a hand on his shoulder. "It's not your life's work. Not yet. You will grow as a writer." He batted my hand away and rose quickly. "Or not," I laughed, though I felt a twinge of unease. "Either way, office hours are done."

Darby did not share my laugh as his face grew paler and paler, his eyes darting back and forth to the chaotic rhythm of a man who had just lost everything. Usually this was how my students appeared around midterms or after final scores were posted.

"I planned it out," he murmured. "I mirrored it perfectly. No holes whatsoever. How did I miss…is that how…" he paused and reached in his pocket glancing at the wall of awards. "I’m really not good enough…but…maybe you?" His eyes grew wide as it appeared an idea was taking form. “No…yes?” I watched as his shoulders went from their defeated slouch to a triumphant rectangle. He pulled out a pen and removed the cap, placing it on the back. It was beautiful, with what appeared to be mother of pearl around its base, yet there seemed to be an energy pulsating from the tip.

"Professor," he said in a shaky voice. "I did not write that story. Not in any traditional sense. I…I don't know how to explain it. But I can show you." He pulled a notebook from my desk and began to write feverishly. "I did not write the story about the volcano journey. I lived it." Scribble scribble. "I wasn't skipping your class. I was writing. But again, not like I assume you would have taught us. I was...living my stories. But I made some mistakes. And if I were not certain that those mistakes were…I mean I would just go back. But I…" He wrote some more, read over the work, then wrote a bit more. Then he ripped the page out and wrote again. "I can't go back because I barely made it out the last time. But I think you might have an easier time…" He finished writing and placed the pen cap gently on the head and snapped the journal shut. "When you get there, read the words aloud. All of them. It won't work otherwise. It won't become real." He tore a page out and shoved the notebook and pen into my hands.

"Darby," I laughed.

"Read the words when you get there, and I will explain everything to you." He stepped back and smiled. "It's gonna be alright. I'm certain you will do better than me. After all," he shrugged. "You are a writer."

“I,” I corrected his grammatical mistake, a habit writing teachers simply cannot resist.

“Aye, indeed,” he nodded, lifting the page to read it, not understanding his error.

"Darby, seriously, what the…"

"As though the void was angry at the loss of its latest resident, it opened its maw to draw him back. But the professor, seeing the plight of his student, stood in his place, and was absorbed by the darkness," Darby read from his page. I raised an eyebrow as he looked up, right at me. "Good luck, prof."

I started back and glanced at the letter.

"Darby, this is cute, but I'm not re-enrolling you in a class that's only got two wee…"

The world, my office, my wall, and Darby all disappeared from view as I suddenly found myself standing in an empty blackness, not unlike the vacuum of space, with no one around to scream to, and should I have chosen to do so, I doubt they would have heard me anyway.