The Writer

I did not mean to for it to turn out the way it did.

I just wanted to write - but imagination is addictive.

When I met it, it did not speak of how this would all turn out. It promised me success - and in turn my soul.

I didn't need my soul; how could I own something I did not understand. It seemed flightless to me. If the choice was live a good life now or preserve a mediocre one in exchange for the possibility of salvation - somehow paying the bills seemed like the true ambition.

I wanted to write, and I wanted to tell a good story. Like the ones I grew up on that got me thinking of the impossible. I wanted to make films, but ultimately the idea of writing a novel, being an author felt more attainable - no limiting a vision because of budget, just write and the reader's imagination would do the rest.

But writing doesn't pay the bills. I was tired of sleeping in my car. And most of all I was tired of being a nobody - I was 29, I had seen the word when I enlisted. After, I acquired two degrees in less than half the time it would take any normal person yet had nothing to show for it. So, when that thing offered me the opportunity to mean something to someone somewhere, you can bet your ass I took it at the expense of my soul.

But I should've known what it meant, "when one glass fills, another one empties."

It could not create what didn't already exist, but it could take from those that had already manifested for themselves. I assumed when I wished to become a great writer, that another author would fall off - maybe they'd get indefinitely sick or publish a dud and their good luck and talent would be passed on to me, thus ending their career.... never this...

I saw it on the news, thousands of children not waking up. No one knew why, but It had something to do with me and that damn wish.

The news media spent months covering these cases, no doctor had a clue, and even the government tried to understand; they believed it was a pandemic imprinting only on the youth. But they had no idea.

My first novel was published 6 months before the first 8 cases became national news. I didn't think anything of it, or at least I didn't want to.

My book became a New York's Bestseller and my name made it onto 27 'Best New Writers to Watch Out For' list. People noticed me, they saw me for my writing, and they connected with my stories.

Within a span of five years, I published 11 novels, 127 shorts and acquired a film deal with A24 to adapt my second novel into a film - I had full creative control. The world was mine; my writing was being branded as the generational voice in literature - grief, loss, horror, faithlessness, violence, sex, everything I ever wanted to speak on was being heard, recited and left to linger on the lips of avid readers. And I would finally make a movie. My dreams had caught up to me, full circle.

Children were scared to fall asleep, news reports of a new drug to keep kids awake longer were making the rounds and parents were paying up to purchase them on street corners and black markets. More than 3,000 children were in stasis, one day playing and laughing and scraping their knees and the next unresponsive, and perpetually silent. Asleep.

Was this because of a wish I made?

I drove miles and miles to the place where that thing and I first met. A place that was a memory of when I was at my lowest and sure enough it was there, it knew I would come, and it waited.

I could not look at it, that was the rule, If I did the wish would be undone - but I could speak to it and it would speak back.

The air was thicker than napalm, the stench smelled of moldy wood and roadkill.

I kept my eyes closed as it sat in the passenger side of my car. Temptation to open my eyes seemed a like pair of talons scathing the thin layer of my eyelids. I wanted to so badly. I couldn't. I didn't want to lose all I've gained.

"This always happens." It spoke, I trembled.

"What?" I asked, knuckles white and tentacled around the steering wheel.

"You realize the consequences outweigh your self-interest, and you open your eyes, the guilt becomes too heavy an anvil to swim with." I can feel it shift in next to me, getting closer. "What you all fail to realize is you were born with an anvil tugging you further into the depths, I just make the drowning more bearable."

I squint my eyes harder, unsure of whether I want to undo the last five years of my life; the recognition, my legacy, my name, the money.

"Those kids, why them?" I asked, angry that it's the first time I've actually said it out loud. “There are actual bad people out there who deserve to never wake up."

"Self-righteous of you to claim others are bad." It was making a point, and I had that same thought as I spoke the last sentence. “You wished for a shortcut - but didn't like the blade used to pave your path, how human."

This time the voice did not come from next to me, it came from inside my skull. "Do you know why your wish came true?" I could feel my skull stretch open like dry leather splitting at the seams, "because there's nothing like the imagination of children to fuel your own writing. Pure and untainted imagination." The stench was now in my nostrils warming my chest, "also, I know you couldn't live with yourself when you found out, that makes it fun for me. Does it bother you so much you would open your eyes? Does their suffering mean so much to you, you would suffer for them? Be nothing, again. Be nobody, again. Undo it all? Then just look upon my face and reap your insanity" Silence. It was gone.

It knew I would never open my eyes, because in the end, I wanted my good life to continue. I earned it after all the shit I've endured. Right?

6 Years Later

Megan was smarter than I was as a kid, probably because I threw every book I could find at her by the age four. Nothing too hard, but certainly more chapter books than the usual parent would concede to. I always hated hearing parents brag about their kids for doing things children typically did around their specific age groups. Sure, your child was extra perceptive asking questions their natural curiosity would muster up but what child didn’t? Yet, I celebrated every little thing mine did – every word pronounced, every bold question asked. Maybe I had become bias, afterall, my child was awake.

The world seemed quieter, parks were emptier, somehow the world’s light had dimmed. Every piece of media at this point was set in a world where children were sleeping or put to rest. Books, films, shows, music – they all reflected a world in fractions, taken apart by a generation lost. Lost to a wish. And while the rest of the world mourned 650,000 sleeping children, mine got to live part of her life unscathed. Even if I wanted to take back my wish, and save the rest of them, I would lose this life I built for her – or maybe that’s how I sold it because I still didn’t want to right my wrong.

Her mom and I rarely argued, but when we did, we made sure we never went to bed angry; it wasn’t an option. By the time the sun poked its beam through our blinds we had made up a couple times that night, unable to unlatch from the other person’s grapple. I had found something out of the story books; a love I knew I did not deserve – good things did not happen to me unless I wished for them. But I embraced it none the less, until the day she died giving birth to Megan. Nine months prior to that, a week before we found out she was pregnant we had our first real and only argument. She brought up the rising number of children in stasis, and the fear that of conceiving our own in a world this uncertain. I didn’t know whether I lashed out from fear or guilt. A guilt I felt alone, and one I could not confess to her – I remember my parting lips expressing a final thought to her, “I’m glad the parents pulled the plug on those kids, I’d do the same,” and cracking the frame of the door as I shut it.

Guilt was ruining the only real thing I’d encountered in a decade.

I spent that day in a bookstore; the wooden shelves smelled of old pages, the scent of printer ink in-between sliced parchment and glue filled the air, the dim lighting painted shadows down tight pathways lined in novels, autobiographies, comic books – worlds within worlds within worlds. I remember when I didn’t hate this place, my books weren’t published then.

I found a copy of all of my books and walked them to the front. The woman at the register didn’t recognize me through my reading glasses and hoodie, I didn’t want to be seen.

“His writing is something else, I envy you if this is your first time experiencing it,” she said, her eyesight barely breaking from the covers of my books; she seemed spell-bounded, and at a distance from the world around her.

That night, the books burned green, then blue, then black – the trees in the woods swayed to a serenade only they could hear, there was something in the air disagreeing with my actions.

I could not care less, I watched as my legacy singed – this wouldn’t change what I did, this wouldn’t make me open my eyes to the thing that granted my wish, but it just made me feel good, if just for a moment. I couldn’t possibly burn every copy in existence.

Maybe I was just too late for redemption, but I had something to love and wanted to live this life alongside her. Nine months later my story took a turn, and I was not in control of the typewriter.

At 14 years old my daughter became enthralled with my novels, as much as I tried to keep her from reading them, it was just not possible. She’d hear her friend’s parents talk about them, her teachers in class had worn copies sitting on their desks and at this point 8 of my 27 novels were adapted into films and shows. The world had been tainted by my ink blots – and the world’s children had been sleeping with no hope of waking. Parents outlived their children by huge margins as they were forced to pull the plug, the government had mandated it. If they could not find a cure, then they would be forced to take it out at the root of it - the children still slumbering under the pretense of this affliction would have to be put to rest and cremated in hopes that the fire would purge this disease from the earth. Even with no proof in the blood work of the children of possible biological infection, the world had been too scared to keep hope alive. So, they destroyed as they tend to, as we tend to.

My kid was awake, I told myself, that’s all that mattered. She’d remember me as someone who mattered, she’d outlive me and would be proud.

Every night I’d walk into her room and watched, making sure she’d react to a brush of the hair or a kiss on the forehead, if she reacted then I knew she was still with me. Only that would make all this worthwhile.

I found myself at the place where I met it and closed my eyes – its heat rose from behind my driver’s seat.

“You are by far the most resilient one I’ve ever struck a deal with, you’ve impressed even me,” its voice like a thousand sharp needles scraping against vocal chords.

“You’ve taken so much from me for a soul I promised you, why?”

“Open your eyes, and I’ll tell you, look upon the face of truth and I will speak just that,” I felt it grin, my silence only fueled it, “and after all I’ve taken you still can’t, can you?”

“I wanted my life to matter, I wanted my name to matter,” I gripped the steering wheel in frustration, open your eyes and undo it all. All it takes is a look. “You took Felicity away, you couldn’t let me have that.”

“And only now do you come to me and speak about your woahs, more than ten years after her death. Was it not more immediate then?” It was now on the passenger side of me, its voice carried through my skin, invasive.

“Of course it goddamned mattered!”

It laughed, with a cackle so childish and menacing I felt preyed upon. “If it mattered you would have come to me, pleaded me to undo this life I’ve built you…but…no wait,” I could hear it scraping its face in mocking curiosity,” ah, that’s right two weeks after burying her your film adaptation became the second highest grossing film in history, that was quite the amount of zeros next to your paycheck wasn’t it? Also, I saw it, wasn’t great.” It chuckled.

My eye duds swelled; I wanted my daughter to have opportunity. I was fixated on the achievements. She grieved her mother than I did because I never gave myself the chance to.

“Here’s the difference between you and I,” it leaned in, but its voice was no longer its own, it was mine, “your truth is simple – you are far too selfish to chance failure, I am no different than an emotion, I exist because you people willed it. You think me evil because I violated a wish, but you are the perversion – for not putting an end to it when you had the chance.” It knew I still wouldn’t open my eyes; I was buried deep in this wish of glory – the world without the finer things seemed…wasted, even if I had to live with guilt. I didn’t want to open my eyes, I just wanted to erase the guilt while enduring the consequences of a bitter-sweet bed fellow.

It was gone, and that would be the last time I would ever look for it.

7 Years later

Jeremy was a huge fan of Kaleb Brown’s writing. Every book felt like a peek into a forbidden window only he could open. Jeremy wished he could write like Kaleb. He often joked the author made a deal with the devil, because there’s no way a person could create something so profound, otherworldly and resonant - so full of imagination. But sure enough that person existed and he was just happy to be alive to witness the era of Brown’s writing.

Jeremy waited in line for six hours to get Brown’s autograph – this new book seemed more personal than ever, he’d missed out on the author’s last few book signings for the last couple of books, but he didn’t want to miss this one.

Jeremy finally reached the front; the author had been surrounded by stacks of his newly published book. Kaleb looked worn, greyed and barely filled out his charcoal suit – a different man than the one J expected to see in person.

“Man, Mr. Brown, I’m sure everyone before me has already said this but your writing speaks to me, like crazy. It takes me by surprise just how universal it seems, I know its cliché to say, but it really is. Your writing saved me.” He spoke, but the author just smiled, something between a wince and a slight grin. He took J’s book and signed it, then slid it across the table.

“…thank you,” He took his book and walked away, slightly somber at the lackluster interaction that just took place.

Jeremy finished the book at the park across from the bookstore. This one felt different, sadder, and ending not as satisfying as the rest but none the less another classic in Brown’s personal library of published works.

Jeremy reached the final page of the book and glared sadly as he read the memorial page:

‘Dedicated to my late daughter Megan Brown, the real hero and inspiration behind every page. I’d switch places with you if I could. Hope this sleep is more peaceful.’

Jeremy Closed the book shut, the title read UNPLUGGING THE WORLD.