Legend Of The Man Who Wrote

Reads: 138  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
This story is an answer to the question; what if?

Submitted: July 25, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 25, 2017



A man lived once named Benjamin Fry, who lived only to write, and write he did by the light in his mind while viewing a crystal clear mental portrait as it painted itself out right before his beholding eyes. Those of whom knew him were aware that he had been writing since his earliest childhood, endlessly telling his tales of cotton candy trees, and powder puff clouds high above trees with happy faces that spoke to him as he flew above on a green dragon's back, toward a warm smiling radiant sun.

He had lived his entire life for the adventure found only in a child's world, exploring wood and dale, plundering around in vine enshrouded barns that no human had set foot in for fifty, or seventy five, or even a hundred years.

As he wrote he would recall vivid memories from those most cherished of times. Like the time he and his best friend, Fish, decided to run away from school and go deep into the wood stand behind that small one room building where first and second grades were way back then. The both of them raced into the woods, taking their cover behind thick wax myrtle bushes and old half rotten fallen logs, to escape a thorough search lead by a rough ex combat soldier turned teacher, who had vowed aloud that no student on the campus grounds could ever escape his pursuit.

In his mind's eye he could still see the both of them as they fell down flat behind an old fallen live oak tree, and he could still see the legs of that teacher walking here and there, kicking the bushes as he and some twenty students searched diligently for the forlorn two. He could still see them both near explosion with laughter as the mob finally gave up and moved on back toward class following the teacher's raging failure to discover the two.

So they followed old man Baker's winding creek through the rolling leaf strewn woods. Soon they were arriving behind the falls on a large beaver dam. When they walked around the edge of the pond, it seemed that in no time at all they were on the back side of Fish's father's fields. In the center of these fields enshrouded by trees that grew in thick bunches, was a small round fishing pond, and it was here that the two would spend their day inside this majestic fairytale oasis. Here the fish always seemed to bite, and there was never an evil glance or foul word spoken, no, only the warm contented feeling of a truly perfect child's paradise.

Then there was the other time that Fish and Ben hid way up inside the attic of the church during services, only to walk while straddling the wooden two by four rafters, coming to pause near where the chandelier was hanging inside the study room. As they both gazed through the gap between the edges of the flange that supported the light, and the edge of the wooden hole cut to receive the flange of the light, they saw the preacher filling his pockets with the coins and bills from the offering plate. When they told their parents both received a vicious belt lashing from their fathers. While there was pain in the recalling of these events, experiencing the pain built a strong character that often leads the young into future greatness.

Deep inside his mind and his heart he longed for those times now lost forever to the ages, those times that exist only in the hallowed treasure chest of venerated memories. For many years now he had lived in the city, and his bleating heart and yearning mind had become polluted by a foul lack of cherished friendship, that warm cozy kind of friendship where all people seem as close family, even though no blood relation ever existed at all. He grew weary of the heated bodily congestion, weary of the traffic, weary of those intimidating blank stares on empty featureless faces, and so he began to search for a way out of his despair.

So for those reasons he continued to write, day in and day out. He could always write when there was nothing else to do. He wrote of the good times and the bad, the slow times and the fast, and those crazy happy times with all of the unique personalities that he had came to know. Most important to him, however, was the fact that he wrote to escape into a world of his own making, a world in which he had the power to control all events, a world in which he could create the scenery, making it bloom into life completely on his own terms.

As he wrote along, the more that he continued to write, the more that his pen of mere ink and plastic assumed the nature of an enchanted paint brush, rather than that of a simple pen and ink. With words written in simple black ink he could paint a brilliant living breathing picture portrait, a portrait that would literally come alive with the breath of angels amid the radiant smiling light of a high golden orb, if that was what he chose for it to do. Here he could roam about in a limitless wilderness teaming with wild animals that humanity had never heard of, or experience surprises that no mortal had ever before experienced.

Here his spirit was free to roam about as he chose for it to. There were no forlorn restraints, and if any did emerge, then he had the liberty to combat the oppression by the genius of his own creative intellect. Here inside his world he was free to explore deep into the innermost desires of his heart's precious contentment. Here he was free to discover those delights hidden deep inside his own personality and subconscious imaginative mind; such as lost treasure in long forgotten caves, or new lands hidden in thick jungle cover filled with the ruins of a proud, majestic, though unknown culture, and their strange but sometimes bloody customs.

During the course of the day, however, he was forced by the powers of necessity to labor in the dusty fields and on the blistering rooftops of such shallow, greedy, self centered minds. Though he was really good at what he did, he despised the crying, complaining, antagonistic nature of those among whom he was forced to share company with for such long hours every day. He detested their narrow minds and their disregard for creativity and individual independence. Just as soon as he could make it back inside the empty comforts of his lone apartment, he would write with a completely open mind, for only to lose himself deep within his own words, and deep inside the woods and fields of his limitless imaginative paradise island oasis...a world in which all things were designed according to his own secret innermost desires.

So he wrote or thought about what he was going to write all through the course of each and every passing day, until his sole desire for life itself was to write, creating worlds and scenery like no other to be found anywhere else, on the printed page or off into the secular world without. He wrote for himself but he also wrote for his children that he foresaw himself having one day in the future, and their children, and even their children's children. He wrote for the stranger who just might come upon some long lost and forgotten page. He wrote for the doctor, or the scholar in search of new knowledge or relaxing entertainment. Most of all, though, he simply wrote for the pleasure that he found in writing, and for the ease of dark pain both in his shattered body and poor vexed soul.

As he wrote he soon discovered himself becoming more drawn into the very words that he penned. He was now not just penning words but living a life within the portrait formed by his own mind. This life was like an addiction, a powerful magnetic attraction for him to envelope himself with the words of his own imagination. He was losing concern for the world around him, since his only concern now was for the world of his own creation deep inside his mind.

He could no longer function in the world around him. His bills came due but he never even bothered to open the envelopes. The power went out in the apartment. The heavy knocking of the sheriff upon his front door heralded the force that soon found him living on the streets. In the early morning he found himself standing before a local church only to knock upon those tall thick oaken doors for what ever crumbs that the parish could afford to give. The streets were dark and very cold, but he had only one simple motivating force that kept him alive. That motivating force was the desire to write, only to lose himself deep inside the words and worlds of his pen and mind.

As if everything negative had suddenly happened, he was placed on temporary layoff status from his job. All that he was concerned with presently was to get back to his to the screen of his monitor and into the local library to write. He could think of nothing else but to write, and the portrait that lay deep inside his mind now stood before him, and was a world that he designed by the power in his own pen. At first his material loses concerned him, but as time went on, he grew to no longer give any of those his energy in their concern. He now only wanted to live for the sole purpose of creating new worlds and events.

When his wretched coworkers spoke, he heard not. Events surrounding him just passed him by. Loss, he felt not, he only searched for food when the pain of hunger provoked it. All surrounding him his eyes beheld not, but only the world that lay deep inside his mind and living on the page of his pen.

One day rolled into the next, but in his own world night may become day or day could become night, and he cared not as to whether it was or was not outside of that. Soon he found himself running through rolling forests, wading in rushing creeks with jolly green elves and talkative fluttering fairies. Many times the creatures that he encountered had no known names, but took on a life all of their own and their names would then develop spontaneously from events in their own lives as they occurred.

He was now elated to discover new adventures that would surly rival even those of his own active childhood. He could now become small as a mouse, and ride upon the backs of mice, while speaking and playing with mice in scissor tailed coats and wearing tall black hats. Or he could become tall as a Tyrannosaurus Rex, now engaging in some fierce battle with Triceratops, or pursuing the Brontosaurus through some ancient pristine cretaceous marsh.

No matter how far it was that he pushed into the interior of this fantasy world that was now gradually transforming into a tangible reality, he could always turn his gaze behind him and behold a distant brilliant star that would beacon his return back into the world of the mortal, this secular world of flesh and blood. Upon returning, he would then suddenly find himself at labor among those destitute robots of the flesh, who so hatefully resented their poor pitiful station in life but could only conceive of lashing out upon the innocents surrounding them, especially those that had absolutely nothing to do with any of their forlorn losses and misery. He could only shake his head at their intellectual shallowness and void.

Through it all, he could always find comfort and gratification in his writing, which had now become a compulsive addiction far beyond his ability to control. The clear pages laying before him, or the computer monitor screen, was now more of an orb, like that ancient orb of transparent crystal so venerated by the gypsy fortune tellers. Not only could the portrait materialize within the center of the crystal orb or upon the face of lined paper, but now it was manifesting itself into a tangible reality surrounding him, replacing the dark and dreary secular world with that of the venerated spiritual; behold, a living breathing verdant tropical paradise!

Now, my dear children, Benjamin no longer desired the dull drudgery of the secular world of the common mortal, but desired with a burning lust greater than any that the most powerful compulsive desire of the flesh could ever provoke, to be totally immersed into the world of the divine spiritual oasis that he had already experienced via his imagination.

So he continued to write, he wrote minute upon minute, hour upon hour, day upon day, week upon week, he hesitated to halt even when the calls of nature demanded that he do so. Yeah, he wrote until his very words began to pull upon him; first upon his booted feet, then his lanky legs, then even at the pit of his body, then finally his words consumed his head...until he was finally locked deep inside his own enchanted world. Though the heavenly star burned behind him ever so bright, he never motivated himself to cast his gaze backward but only to push forward, running with laughing bunnies and kind caring green elves, flying high with purple dragons, if his heart so desired; following rushing streams of pure honey and basking in roaring falls of euphoric whiskey delight. Surly he had now found the gates of his own illustrious paradise, and was never to look backward, never again to desire the dreadful poor dull and difficult, and the often perilous secular realm of mortal existence...

Some three days passed and the local bishop and his assistants arrived at the door of his newly parish donated city apartment, with it's entryway now so tightly closed. They all took their turns knocking, but received no answer, so they turned the knob and gingerly walked inside. They searched diligently only to find an empty room and cleared desk, with the last page and paragraph of his final story sitting by itself on the desktop. The last paragraph then read as follows:

And so Benjamin Fry enjoyed the company of fluttering fairies and winged flying dragons, whilst he roamed about in the midst of a verdant tropical island paradise sampling coconut rum soaked delights that he had discovered underneath cotton candy trees. Surrounding him was his very best friend, Fish, and the warm kind friend, C.L., whom he had not seen in some fifty years or more. Even his Grandparents, the bodies of whom had long since turned into dust, were there now cheering him on as he raced about upon multicolored springtime Easter grass. He had ignored the bright beckoning star to the point that it had vanished from his view. So there he was, only to remain eternally free to explore forever as he pleased deep in the heart of a paradise oasis underneath a purple velvet marmalade sky, whilst the Great Father in divine heaven smiled warmly down upon him in radiant golden glory.


© Copyright 2019 H.L. Dowless. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments: