THE WRITER

     "What was she like, the Writer that is? Tell me about her. Tell me her story." This from a young girl of indeterminate age.

     The majestic sun brightened in response and spoke softly, "She was a star herself, although she never knew it. She knew only writing, telling the stories. I will tell you her most creative story:"


      As she wrote, the world's story unfolded, page by page, life by life. She had always written. It was all she knew, although there had been that time when she had lived among the stars. That was before there had been all these stories to weave into the one great story.

      She was writing a story now, sitting at her old and venerable table that had become so much a part of her. It followed her now wherever she went, always appearing whenever she was ready to write the next story.

      She was thinking about the stars and how they seemed to have lost their voices, speaking softly if at all. She certainly no longer heard them. There was only silence amongst the stars.

      This was what she was writing about at the moment, this long and uncertain silence. Sometimes she thought that they were still speaking but just not to her - or perhaps they spoke now in a way that she could no longer understand.

      She imagined that the stars were about to make an important announcement, one that would affect all life, from the smallest insect to the largest of them. She imagined that all life was holding its collective breath now, waiting for this solemn pronouncement.

      Sitting there, waiting for the story to continue, she felt an odd excitement - something big enough for her writing skills! She was already imagining how she would tell the story, depending, of course, upon what the stars said, if and when they spoke again. She would begin by describing the here and now, tying all the current stories into the one. Then she would mention the stars, how they had gone silent, and then....

      She was impatient. This was something she had not felt before, knowing it only through her stories. She began to imagine what the stars would say. Would they perhaps announce that death had finally been conquered, that there was now enough life for all, forever. Perhaps they would tell all us children that it was time for our naps. Perhaps then they would turn out their lights. She had other fantasies too, but these stuck in her head.

      She could wait no longer. She began to write:

     After their long silence, the stars returned, their voices more powerful than ever. Even the smallest of us heard their sweet voices speaking - "We are going restart the worlds. We are going to have a new beginning, one that will further all life. We will all need to sleep while we do this. Please, everyone prepare to sleep before we turn off our lights."

     "Then, when our lights return, we will all wake. We will all be immortal, all of us and all of our descendants. By sleeping in the darkness of the universe, we will have starved Death, he who feeds upon life. We will have defeated him forever."

     Finished writing these words, she suddenly felt very tired. She had never felt so tired. All she wanted to do was sleep. She climbed upon her table, thinking to sleep there. Just then, as she looked about one last time, she noticed that there were no lights at all. The stars themselves had turned off their lights.

      Death began to howl.


     "Maybe she should have been called the Creator," suggested the little girl.

     "Perhaps," said the sun, "but that name has been used and abused for too long. The Writer herself would only say, even after writing that amazingly creative story, that she just tells the story as it unfolds itself into the world."

     By Eugene Marks