The Creator

I wake up to the sound of drums beating. I feel the vibrations in tempo with the throbbing in my temples. Hovering on the border of consciousness, I ache to plunge back into the bliss of my interrupted dream, the silhouette of which I can almost discern. I close my eyes with force; an image wavers into focus.

I see the edge of a colossal jungle, so dark-green as to be almost black, fringed with white surf, running straight, like a ruled line, far, far along a blue sea whose glitter is blurred by a creeping mist. The sun is fierce, making the land glisten and drip with steam, draping the low shore in diaphanous folds. I can feel the secrets hidden amidst the meshes of that preternatural wall of life - all that mysterious stirring in the wilderness, in the jungles, in the hearts of wild men. I convince myself this is real; but the damn beat intensifies, out of place in the unwonted stillness of this vast landscape. A voice rises above the rhythmic chaos, a deep, booming voice that reverberates in my cranium like steel on steel. I try to discern the words, but the sound waves tear at the fabric of my vision - the silvery ether quivers and melts towards me in big, blue blobs.

I am awake. My mouth is numb. I move my tongue to feel my teeth, but it rasps against the inside of my cheeks like sandpaper. My eyelids are stuck together as if they had been smeared with honey. I try to pry them open with my fingers, and manage to painfully succeed with one, only to find a harsh light blazing straight into it. Flies, which had been peacefully sleeping on the walls and ceiling, seem to sense my discomfort, and turn all their attention to me. One alights on my lip, another on my ear, a third buzzes about endeavoring to land on my open eyeball, and one has the lack of forethought to position itself close to my left nostril. I promptly inhale it, proceed to sneeze violently, and thus reach a state of full consciousness. I sit up in my bed - but this is not my bed. This is not my room!

The august interior of the unfamiliar room struck an oddly stifling impression. Red, plush furniture glowed unnaturally in the dim light, bespattered in turn with little spangles of color from the crystals of a softly rotating chandelier. On top of a wooden table, in the center of a broad circle of light, lay a thick book bound with leather dressed in a layer of dust. The faded, yellowish pages exuded an atavistically alluring aura. I dived forward and ensconced my nose between the pages, sniffing for human scent. Nothing. The cover! I turned the book to read its title, and scrawled in childish white strokes stood the word "Bible." I riffled through the pages. Barren. I smacked my lips, found a quill, and was about to strike ink quite permanently into the empty manuscript when the contours of a hellish notion surfaced in a dark crevasse of my brain. It slowly dawned on me. The task at hand was to rewrite the bible. Oh, hell no...!

It was at that precise moment, as I lay stranded in a pit of fear and loathing, that a most peculiar thing occurred: a man entered through a door on the far end of the salon. Across his black woolen sweater, emblazoned in fine gold print, the words “The Manager” shone forth. He was commonplace in complexion, in feature, in comportment, and in voice. He was of middle size and of ordinary build. His eyes, of the usual blue, were perhaps remarkably cold, transfixed as they were on me. There was an indefinable, faint expression on his lips, almost imperceptible, but palpable when taken together with the eyes. It was something stealthy, unconscious, this smile - and right then, after he promptly ejaculated the word “Write!” with an urgent, imperative tone, it intensified for an instant, confirming its presence. I cleared my throat.

-“Excuse me, sir, I assume you are the one in charge here? Well, you see, I don’t consider myself a man of hasty opinions, but you must agree this is all very strange. Would you mind me inquiring where it is that we find ourselves, specifically?” I said, trying hard to maintain a straight face.

-“This is where you wait,” he deliberated, pronouncing each word with care; his gaze unflinching.

- “Wait? For what? Is this not hell?”

- “Hell? No, you seem to be mistaken. You are at the gate.” The elusive smile flashed for an instant.

- “Look, sir, I’m really sorry, I truly mean no disrespect, but we don’t seem to be on the same page here. Am I even alive?”

- “Alive! You could say that. In a way, yes. But then again, decidedly no. We don’t tend to discuss these matters here, I’m afraid.” I shifted nervously, painfully aware of the absurdity of the situation, but not daring to break away from the man’s piercing eyes. Little black tendrils of wool stuck out of his collar like thin fingers trying to strangle him.

-“You must be hot in that sweater, Mr. …? I didn’t catch your name, perhaps that would be a good start,” I proffered as I extended an outstretched arm that entered the limelight and cast a dark shadow on the book below.

-“Your task here is to write, not to ask questions,” he decreed with finality, rejecting my hand without even looking at it. “Proceed.” It was clear the vibrations were getting nasty. I could tell he was rapidly approaching the end of his tether. Was there no communication in this room? Had we deteriorated to the level of dumb beasts?

-“Fair enough.” I answered stoically. It seemed imperative to get on his good side; at any rate, I was willing to endure any torment to avert his prying eyes at that point. “Any suggestions? You know, thematic concern? Raison d’être?” I said with feigned cheer.

-“Since man is mortal, the only immortality possible for him is to leave something behind him that is immortal, that will remain permanently etched as a testament to your self. You can rewrite your life, pour out your soul, create a new world - the limit is your mind. Know this: you have been chosen, and what you choose to write will affect every being after you. It is entirely up to you.” 

If I was confused before, I was helplessly lost now! If I was mortal - thus clearly dead - what the hell were we doing here in the first place? And why me? It was evident this austere man had some sort of severe mental impediment. I resolved to tread with utmost caution henceforth.

-“I see. I’ll get to it promptly, Mr. Manager, don’t you worry, but I have a few more harmless questions to dispel my inadequate doubts. What is it that I am waiting for; what sort of impact will what I write have on my future endeavors; and...what if I refuse?” I braced myself.

-“I’m afraid this conversation has ended. Now, you write,” he ended abruptly, turning around with the last word and reaching the door in what seemed like two strides. He paused with his hand on the knob. The room seemed to hold its breath. "Refuse and you will wait forever. We will all cease to exist," and with that he disappeared.

Fairly agog, I remained in silent contemplation for quite some time. If I had understood correctly, someone had had the lack of forethought to grant me the power of creation through mere words; the task to breathe life with writing. The dawn of a new world brought to life from my very own fingers! A mind-numbing prospect, truly. But could I do it? Play God, that is Where would I even begin? I needed inspiration, and there was definitely none to be plucked from this stifling room. I only had my life experience, with everything I had ever perceived in the world, to guide me. I knew myself well, for one. I could do it, I told myself. I could create, all I needed was my imagination and an iron will. With newfound determination I dipped the quill in the inkpot, conjured up the image of that mysterious jungle, and gave birth to Man.

“Thus, on the first day...”