The Consequence

From the Drafts: a flash fiction piece about the power of words

A challenger came to my desk one day and presented a test to write whatever I would to entertain him.

What came to my pen was a wandering into a new world, as oft I find it leading. This world, where colors were not dimmed by my perception and sunlight bled through fog, found warmth amidst frost and gardens in deserts. The voices of wind sang through the leaves and thistledowns, beckoning towards a crackling fire that warmed a home’s hearth though there be no house built.

I wrote about a world where one could swim in sunbeams that threaded the pink sky and take rest in violet clouds. One where the prarie’s gown of wildflowers led towards a kingdom of marble and sapphire where we could dance freely in the square. At night the stars would join and line our garments with pixie dust as the purest form of magic would paint pathways on our skin and declare us safely chosen for grand schemes of goodness.

But the pen also bled black ink, and so flowing from its well also came despair. The world, though mine, I walked along it in silence. The tangibility of my being vaporized into apparitions as my world became haunted by my inability to reach you. I wrote my desperation into rising waters where chins tipped upwards just to catch a breath. My anger burned into wars, and my fears churned into plagues. Heartbreak became death that only music could rightfully mourn, and judgment screamed itself into a dragon dictator with sour breath.

When at last the pages ran out, I dug into the furthest corners of the room, raking through the wall with bleeding fingernails. On the floor I wrote and wrote until the pen was forced to use my tears for ink and a heartbeat for—

Suddenly the pen was ripped from my hand.

The challenger’s eyes spiraled in his perturbation. I noticed then the blade of the pen cut the challenger’s clutched hand,

And we both fell into silence.