For a brief moment, everything was still, the puff of smoke from the barrel of the gun, the spurt of warm blood at my side. Time stopped, memories flowed, i gasped. The pain overtook me and i anticipated the cruel thud of hard concrete. But it never came, everything stopped. The sounds gradually faded and the laws of physics seem to cease briefly for a moment. Momentarily, the world seem like a tapestry, a painted painting, fake, artificial. I breathed deeply and glanced around.
My heart thumped faster and faster, it was the only sound in this silent world. I am Ian Lee, I am Mercutio Duvall, I am Joey. Who am I? The world fluttered and it didn’t matter, I could not move, i was words on a page, a moving picture in a comic book, something wasn’t right. I peered upwards, Godwards, and I prayed.
When will the inspiration flow? Why do these stories always begin, and why do they fail to develop, and why are they always shelved away? I looked down and saw myself.
I looked up and saw myself. It is true. There is no God in this world, I am not real. Or am I? As you read me, he wrote me. I can never die. I am still falling. The blood spray is surreal, I am captivated by it, like little crimson pin drops in the darkest night. My vision is blurring, he wills it. What happens after you close the book? What happens after the pen falls and the keyboard becomes silent?