His hands were sore; his very fingers ached. With a sigh, he got up from his desk, crossing the small attic space and wandering toward the window. His hero, Irytor, the great warrior of a forgotten time—he had been writing for four hours now, caught in the fervor of creation—had been in battle with the dark forces of the wizard, Aminer, surrounded and without help. It was the end, the writer mused, lighting his cigarette. He had been planning this final stand, outlining it for months. It took him so long because he was afraid to write, afraid to end the story. It had to be good, be the best, be right, he told himself.
Then, he’d sat down after work today and just started typing.
He closed his eyes. He could still hear the echoes of the typewriter in his ears. With a sigh, he looked out the little attic window toward the setting sun. The shadows darkened, filling the spaces between the neatly ordered homes of his street; a golden hue saturated the world, the dying light dancing along the black pavement and gilding the tips of the finely mowed grass of his neighbors. His own little patch was a wild tangle the homeowner’s association had sent him many a missive about, a dark, miniature jungle that was escaping onto the sidewalk.
Irytor would not be bothered by such trivialities, he thought. Shaking his head, he reminded himself, You’re not Irytor. It’s time to grow up.
Tomorrow, he promised himself, and the next day and the next, he’d go over what he’d written and put the final touches to everything, but it was good, he knew. He had been in the grip of real inspiration just now. Irytor had the death of a hero; he felt he’d found some victory in the tragedy, some victory in the inevitable defeat. One man against an army. Man against society! he thought triumphantly. Society would win, and what would happen to man? A sad smile stretched his lips a moment as he considered the last ten years of the boyish adventures he’d written. He’d grown as a writer, started to get published, but the story had to end.
That was the victory, he reminded himself. Man could die, but if his life, if the story he lived out was true, then even if society threw all of its weight against it, it would be the society that would crumble to dust.
Tale Told 