He was an old man. Withered and dry like last autumn’s apple. His cap, pulled down low over his forehead, shadowed his eyes where they dwelt like two pale, blue gems set into a dark cave wall. Or like magic wishing ponds, fountains of life, hidden in that dark, mysterious forest no one could read. A gray, woolen muffler was wrapped snugly around his neck, and his blue – veined hands clasped the paper coffee cup; drinking in the warmth as he drank its contents.
I paused and tossed my dyed blue hair over one shoulder. The air trembled like the frozen birds outside with busy, coffee- shop noises. A group of carolers strolled by and, “Ding, Dong, Ding Dong…” lilted in along with a gust of bitter air and scented peppermint and coffee grounds.
I could see him sitting there. Maybe it was my imagination, but I could see every move he made, and watch his eyes, pale as the winter sky, as they stared off into the distance. I noticed him like no one else did. I knew him like no one else did. In a way, he was me. Fashioned of my mind and my heart and born through my hand. He lived only on my paper, yet I could see him. Maybe it was my imagination, or maybe it was just a bit of magic.
I felt a little sorry for him. He was so exposed. I knew him so well and he could hide nothing from me.
The man glanced up. His eyes flickered back and forth as he watched the customers, caught up in the tiny task of buying a cup of coffee, thinking of nothing else, nor caring for that matter. They were like tiny dollhouse figures, picked and placed, living a life that was not really their own, simply the imagination of the child who moved them.[/i]
Poor old man. He was no more in control of his story than he thought the people in his life were. I watched him as he sat by the window. He stared at each customer as they passed, and his haggard face seemed to grow pained with each one that passed by. Those little ponds in his eyes were no longer still, but they rippled like a penny or a stone had been dropped into them. Trembling, he stood up, knocking over his chair. He reached out and grabbed a man by the arm. “Wake up!” He cried franticly, “Wake up, wake up!”
I watched the frightened man stumble out the door and shuffle quickly away. The old man collapsed to the wooden floor and began to sob piteously. I was frightened too. I glanced at my paper, but the words were not there, as they shouldn’t be, for I had not written them.
The old man looked up. The girl was staring at him. He could tell she was frightened. “You.” He whispered, “You understand.” He smiled. “You’re awake too. I’m not alone.” He stood up and strode toward her.
“No.” I breathed. “You don’t exist. I created you.”
“You think you did,” he said. His blue eyes that, oh, I knew so well, pierced mine like two shafts of electric blue light.
“But who,” he said, “created you? Do you really exist?”
My mouth parted but no words came out. I was utterly and completely shocked.
“Is this real life, or are we just a story, a figment of some other’s imagination?” I stared at him as he spoke. “Like the dollhouse yes.” He continued. A brief flicker of fear shivered through me but it was quickly gone. “I exist.” I said, “I know I do.”
And so do I. I know because I created her. Her and the old man. In a way they are really alive, if only in my imagination, and now yours. But think, reader, and ask yourself this… do we exist? Maybe we are just a glimpse of a child’s imagination. Or maybe, maybe we are just a little bit of magic...
I wrote this in about ten minutes, so the writing is probably not so great, but I sort of liked the idea. Please tell me what you think![i][i]
