Guilliean reads her short story of the same name.
Seven days ago, I created their world. Now, nobody will talk to me.
I’m going to be honest (and you won’t get that every day from a girl like me). I’m not a selfish deity. I was raised to share what I could with others in this sick, sad world of ours. I decided to create the ultimate microcosm of life, where the objects of my imagination could live as free as a bird. A universe so practical that they could exercise the ancient arts of love, war, magicks, and ultimately, responsibility.
But I gave them the ability to think, and that was probably my first mistake. In my defense, I wanted them to think, and to make their own decisions. That is the fundamental gift of any higher power who creates life. You should give your creations the ability to believe in what they want.
It backfired, as I should’ve foreseen. They laugh in my face when I send them signs that it was I who created them. At least, they used to. Now, they don’t even care. They’re oblivious to the miracles that I gave to them, simply by creating them. They lived their lives and gave me no inspiration to continue, whatsoever. Their lives are steeped in war, famine, and false idols, but they disregarded me constantly.
I suppose it’s my own fault. You give them an inch, they’ll take it a mile, as the old cliche goes.
One day, I decided to put them away. I opened the file I had made for the characters of the Other Land, and shook my head in embarrassment. They – in turn – stuck their tongues out at me and gave me a good old Bronx cheer. So with a click of my mouse, I stuck them in a folder on my computer that I hardly use. I essentially sent them on a time out.
They’re still sitting there, wondering what happened. They’re beginning to question their mere existence though, and that excites me. Not enough to get me to pay any more attention to them, but enough to say, “Don’t forget about us.” They’re living their lives, but so am I. I needed a break from all of their drama, and it’s working.
It’s time for me to pick up the pen again and I don’t know where to go from here. How do people commit words to the page for a living? They’re completely mad. But they’re my people. No bones about it.
Music: Just a Story from Music Sesame.
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