A dust storm, raging and flying. Making circles and going nowhere, filling every corner and path, revolving as a bundle of nerves, full of anguish and sand. This storm was as old as the wind, it was the music produced by the character’s magic, and it sometimes took the shape of innocent talc, others it was a constructive flour, but they were just shapes, its origin was always the one of dry lands and old distress.

And the wizard tried and tried, he was not an artist for his creations were not beautiful. He was not an architect because the outcome of his works was always unstable. He could only exteriorize that sand storm of twisted dreams and crooked stories. But what didn’t came out the way he wanted the most was the dying of the characters, numerous monsters and old kings, all fighting to come back into his day dreams or wicked writing. Every single one of them, fighting, struggling, bombarding and stalking, just to get out; but this was no act of freedom, they just wanted to rein the reality as well.

So the wizard thought day and night, what could he do, what would ever make such a storm and monsters to calm down? What on that unreal world or in his mundane life could pacify a storm as old and dry as his memory, or stop the monsters that hid under his bed and imagination. He had tried to enter the realm of fantasy, and kill one by one of those beasts, but said creatures overpowered him, he had become a prisoner of his own wicked and vicious imagination.

At all costs the wizard had to keep the monsters locked in his head, and the storm as calmed as he could, so he took some potions, potions that made him forget. Potions that made his soul feel numb, that made him smile, yet not feel merry. But it was all worth it as long as the six headed zombies and the old scary tyrants didn’t came out at night to whisper things.

Oh silly humans who think they can just call away their ghosts, the wizard didn’t last long in that numbing spell. Soon the storm found its way to blow harder and the characters to occupy his every thought. He was surrounded; there was nothing he could do. The monsters simply took his fortress and ravaged his defenses and violated his mind and forced him to take them to the other side. There was nothing more the wizard could do, so abused and vulnerable, the wizard let them in.

And so the music of the characters was heard again, the storm was raging and the pen was scratching. Paper was inked, monsters were released and the wizard boy could at last have a breath, although he knew the consequences. He couldn’t stop vomiting letter by letter, adjective by adjective each of the monsters who had stalked them, they were just flowing into the sea of sentences.

The ink was drying out and so was his sanity, his well being was flushing down the river of nonsense as well; they were draining his whole being. And moments before he thought it was the last breath he would make, a character long ago imagined appeared, one that was not along with the horde of monsters. This one was an actual good memory; it was a remnant of a forgotten smile. And with that he saw not only evil was produced in him that he could choose. And with the last breath of hope he scribbled one last sentence.

“Regardless of their efforts, they lived happily ever after.”

[who said I couldn't write happy endings?]

By I'm the penguin