Lucid

Alone in his apartment, Richard Pell stared at the blank page on his desk, tapping his pen at random intervals to fill the silence in his cluttered office. Occasionally he would glance out the window, ignoring the piles of unfinished drafts on his floor and shelves, while wishing the night sky was not overcast so that he could see the stars. Where has my inspiration gone this time? He had no clue. It was the twelfth night in a row that his efforts to write ended in in a writer’s block. Usually, writing came easily to him. Ideas flowed from his mind like an unending spring, flooding his thoughts with crazy and original characters, plots, and twists. It was a gift. He had regularly published his stories and poems in a local magazine, never once failing to find the motivation to write. Except now. He had been sitting at his desk for five hours, only getting up to get coffee or go to the restroom. Not a single idea had come to him, and he had a story due next week. The pressure of meeting the deadline was bad enough, but now his brain felt constipated. He finally sighed, leaning back in his chair while idly rolling his pen back and forth on the desk. Don’t want to be late for work tomorrow. I should probably go to bed. He glanced out the window again, frowning as he passed his pen between his hands. I wish something would just come to me. As soon as the words crossed his mind, the air over his desk rippled and danced like water, distorting the wall behind it. An electric crackling sound filled the room, and the piles of papers on his desk were flipped and scattered by a sudden rush of air. Richard fell backwards in his chair, crying out in alarm as his head banged against the tiled floor. For a brief moment, there was a blinding flash of light, then it was gone. Richard waited to see if something else would happen, his writer's block now forgotten. He hesitated for only a moment before rolling off his fallen chair, trying to crawl as quietly as he could in his robe and fuzzy bunny slippers. He got to his haunches and raised himself so that he could see the top of his desk...and what he saw made him think he had hit his head on the ground a little too hard.
A tiny man stood on his desk amid scattered sheets of paper, looking around the room with an expression best described as awe. His eyes were bright with wonder as he took in the comparative size of the furniture, his mouth hanging open as he compared his height to the desk lamp beside him. He looked like a normal person, albeit one who was no more than a foot tall. He wore a helmet with a clear visor, and he was clothed in something that looked like a shiny purple spacesuit. After carefully surveying his surroundings, his gaze locked on Richard and he bowed, pausing to take off his helmet.

"Mr. Pell," the little man said, his voice deeper than Richard had expected, "you must help me! I've been searching for you—you're the only one who can help me and my people!"

Richard rubbed his eyes, then touched the place where he had banged his head. It was tender, and he winced as his fingers brushed over the rising bump. I might have a concussion. Am I—

"You're not hallucinating!" the little man said insistently, as if anticipating what Richard had been about to think. The little man gestured to himself. "I'm really here, and really real!" When Richard's dumbfounded expression did not change, the little man sighed and walked over to the edge of the desk where Richard's head was. He nudged some papers aside with his foot and reached out with his hand, tapping the larger man on the nose. Richard stumbled back in surprise, losing his balance so that he flopped to the floor on his butt. He looked up at the little man on his desk, still not believing, but unable to deny what he was seeing. He managed to whisper a question. "Who are you?"

The little man set his helmet down and smiled mysteriously before seating himself on the edge of the desk, his legs hanging off the side.

"My name is Lonji. I come from another world many times removed from this one. And you, Mr. Pell, hold the fate of my people in your hands."

Richard opened his mouth to say something, but no words came. And how could they? This whole situation was enough to drive anyone speechless! He scoffed at the thought, smiling apologetically at the little man before standing up. "I'm afraid you have the wrong person," Richard said, brushing his sleeves free of imaginary dust. "I'm not a doctor, a policeman, or a special agent. I can't help anyone or their fates. I'm just a writer, and a pretty shoddy one at the moment. Maybe you have me confused with some other Mr. Pell? You could, uh, use my phone book to find him, if you'd like."

The little man shook his head. "That won't be necessary, sir. I know you are the right person. My people would not have sent me here if you weren't."

Richard gave a short laugh, glancing pointedly at the papers scattered around his cluttered office. "What makes you so sure? Anyone can make a mistake. Besides, I don't know how I could possibly be helpful to anyone, except to entertain them. I'm just a writer. Well…was." He picked up his chair and set it next to the desk so that he could sit at the little man's eyelevel. He seated himself and rubbed the sore spot on his head before continuing. "I went to college to be a writer. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. I’ve even published a few stories and poems. But it’s never been enough. I always imagined I’d become some great author who would get famous for some amazing story, but it wasn’t long before I realized that was just a stupid fantasy. I love writing, but it could never be my full time job.” He smiled ruefully. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr…Lonji; you can go back to wherever it is you came from. I obviously need to go to bed. Don’t want to be seeing things that aren’t there while I’m flipping hamburgers tomorrow.”
The little man didn’t move, but panic flickered briefly in his eyes. “Wait, you can’t leave me! You have to help…what difference will it make if you stay?”

"I’ll miss work tomorrow and I won't get paid!” Richard snapped, frowning. "I'll get turned out of my apartment, and I'll probably have to be homeless because I can't afford the plane ticket to move back with my parents!" His burst of anger quickly regressed into shame, and he shook his head before burying his face in his hands. "I'm a failure."

"Don't say that!" Lonji said, jumping up suddenly. "You're the greatest guy who ever existed!"

Richard put his hands down, but he didn't look up, his head hanging. "I bet you say that to every loser you accidentally meet."

"No, it's true," Lonji insisted. "To my people, you are the first and the last, the beginning and the end!"

When Richard didn't respond, he sighed in exasperation. "You made us!"

Richard looked up in surprise. "Wait—what?"

The little man paced back and forth on the desk, his hands clasped behind him as he explained. “It hasn't happened yet, but in the near future you will write about my people in one of your stories. It will become a big hit, and your story will be published as a ten-part series that will be loved by readers for generations to come. Your name will be on the front and back of every single copy, and it will echo in the hearts of dedicated readers forever.” He smiled a bit sheepishly. “I don't understand the science of it myself, but our scientists theorize that somehow, if enough people believe in something, in some small way it will come to exist. Like Santa, and honest politics." He pointed to himself. "In the case of me and my people, the power of your readers believing in your stories created a pocket universe where we now live. And it's all thanks to you."

Richard was baffled, but his tone was more skeptical than confused when he finally replied. "So, you're from the future."

"Sort of."

"Sort of?" Richard scoffed, raising his arms in question. "How can you be 'sort of' from the future?"

"Well," Lonji said, rubbing his stubbled chin, “You write about us in the future, but you wrote us in the present. I mean, the universe my people exist in is running at the same time period as this one, but the time at which you publish a story about us is in the future."

Richard still didn't understand, but he didn't risk saying so. He wasn’t sure he’d understand the answer anyway. He asked another question that had been nagging ever since his evening had first been interrupted. "If you're from the near future, does that mean time travel will be invented soon?" He didn't know why, but he imagined that being able to travel back in time would give him some inspiration for great new writings, maybe even a novel.

Lonji shook his head. "The invention of time travel will only exist in our universe, the pocket one. You put it there for reasons unknown to us...we all guessed that it had something to do with the eleventh book in the series."

Richard tilted his head, intrigued. "What happens in it?"

"I…don't know," Lonji confessed. "No one does. You started it, but never finished. You sent it to the editor, but after she sent it back, you shelved the manuscript. And without the closure of a final book, our universe is prone to be warped by unauthorized parodies, knockoffs, and horribly written fanfiction!" He shuddered, hugging himself to calm down. “So many wars…invasions by terrible beasts…plagues, anime crossovers…and the roleplaying fantasies, oh Lord…” His voice trailed off as he stared into the distance, as if seeing horribly terrible things that were beyond Richard’s imagination. After a minute, Lonji came back to the present. He forced a smile. "Anyway, that's why I came here tonight to find you, Mr. Pell. My people and I beg you...you must write the eleventh and final book!"

"And how could I possibly do that if I haven't even written the first one?" Richard asked, sighing. “I don't even know what your people are called, or where you come from! That sort of idea comes from weeks of hashing through concepts, possibilities, scenarios! Why didn't you just go to my future self that already wrote the first ten books? He'd be better equipped for the task, I'm sure!"

Lonji pursed his lips, thinking. "The people who sent me explained it briefly before I left. The technology you gave us only lets us travel back and forth in time across the universes. It was only after much trial and error, that we found yours. But no matter how hard we tried, we could not breach the wall between our universe and your future universe that is parallel to ours. We are barred from ever meeting that version of you." He paused to moisten his lips. "As for what my people are called, well, you haven't come up with that yet, have you? So I shouldn't—no, I can't tell you what we are. I'm sure it'd be some violation of time-space physics or something for those who are created to plant ideas in the mind of their creator."

"So how is asking me to write an eleventh book not planting ideas in my mind?" Richard asked wryly.

"It's different!" Lonji said defensively. "It's like, praying, I guess. We're asking you to help us, but we're not telling you how to specifically do it. Besides, if I told you what we're called, who's to say that you would use it in the future anyway? You might decide to expressly not use it, creating another universe and destroying the other that would have been created."

“I suppose that’s true,” Richard admitted, “But what makes you think that it would be any different for the idea of me writing an eleventh book? It’s just as likely that I wouldn’t write it, even though you asked me to. In fact, I don’t think I can do it. It doesn’t seem possible.”

Lonji looked crushed by the words. His lip trembled like he was about to cry, but he clenched his jaw to suppress the emotion. “You’re giving up before you’ve even tried? Are you saying you won’t…help us?”

Richard sighed. “No. It’s just that…this is a lot to take in, you know? I’d like to help you—really, I would. But I can’t write about you. Not only have I hit a really bad writer’s block, but I don’t know anything about you, or your people. How can I promise to write anything if I don’t have any idea what to write about?”

It was a good point, and Lonji appeared to have no answer for it. He sunk to his haunches on the desk, looking defeated.

“Perhaps,” Richard said, drawing his attention, “you could tell me about something that would help me get my creativity flowing without breaking some random law of time and space. What you ate for lunch. How old your parents are. When dinosaurs really died out on your world.”
“I’m not sure about any of those,” Lonji said slowly, drawing himself into a standing position, “but what if I told you about the most recent battle I was in? Fanfiction fiends are hardly original, but I will grudgingly admit that they can be…creative. Best part is, since you didn’t write about them, I can tell you about them without conflicting your impression of what really matters.”

“That love always wins?”
“That you start and finish the story about my people,” Lonji said dryly. “Or else we will suffer forever and our blood will be on your hands.”

“No pressure, then,” Richard mumbled. “But just so I know what you’re dealing with, let’s hear about that battle.”

Lonji nodded, sinking down again so that he was sitting cross-legged on the desk. He closed his eyes and thought for a moment, his hand clenching when the memories came back to him.
“It was early morning when they first came, their ranks forming dark blue lines on the horizon. We had no idea what they were or where they came from. That’s how it always happens—the invaders just appear from nowhere without any definite number. These new invaders were about half our height, which we could see as they drew closer and closer to us, but there were hundreds of thousands of them. They covered the ground and assaulted us with their ridiculously high-pitched voices while swarming our homes, stores, churches, everything. My people attacked with everything we had, but we couldn’t kill the menace fast enough. These blue-skinned, white bearded invaders were like nothing we had ever seen before. They wore pointed hats and seemed to be following the biggest one...they called him 'papa'." He paused, shuddering. "They didn’t directly kill any of my people, but the sheer number of their swarm was enough to smother dozens of helpless civilians. And their singing was even worse.” His voice caught in his throat, and he swallowed. “I lost my brother in all that chaos. He was trampled to death under the swarm.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Richard murmured. “I can’t imagine how it must feel. But how do you know it was fanfiction that led to that incident?”

“Internet,” Lonji said, laughing hollowly as a tear escaped his eye. “We got access to a time and space traveling device. Of course we’d have internet.”
“So I guess that’s how you found out about me,” Richard guessed.

Lonji paused to wipe away his tear. “Actually, every person on my world knows about you from the day they are born. The internet only confirms the fact. You are our maker, Mr. Pell. And that is why you, and only you can help us. But you must decide now. Yes or no. If you choose yes, then I can go back home and tell my people that we are saved. We will live in hope. We will be free.”

“And if I say no?” Richard asked. Lonji opened his mouth to say something, but no words came. They didn’t need to; his fear-filled eyes said everything. Richard drew the conclusion himself.
“If I say no and choose not to write the story at all, your world will never have existed. You won’t exist.” He looked at Lonji. “You knew this all along, didn’t you? That by coming to me to ask me to continue the story, you risked the chance that I would say no. Why would you do that? Would you really rather not exist?”

“It is a sacrifice we are prepared to make,” Lonji said bravely, though sweat began beading on his forehead. “Either we live in safety and freedom, or never live at all.”
Richard looked at the little man sitting in front of him, his gaze intense. Silence stretched. Lonji sweated. Then Richard finally broke into a smile and laughed.

Lonji leapt up in surprise and stepped back, afraid that he had done something to upset his maker. “What is it? What have I done?”

“The right thing, apparently,” Richard said. He chuckled. “I always thought I had it hard in life, since I couldn’t have my dream of being a big, successful writer. But here you come, out of nowhere, begging me of all people to help you live in safety because I become a successful writer in the future.” He shook his head and looked at Lonji with a smile, his tone gentle. “Who am I to deny you your freedom? I will write your story. And I will finish it, no matter what.”

The little man was quiet for a while, as if shocked by Richard’s words. He looked up happily, almost tripping over his helmet as he walked back to the edge of the desk. “You really mean it, sir?”

“Of course,” Richard assured him. “In fact, I’ve got some ideas pouring into my brain already. Wait a minute…” A smile came to his face as he realized that his brain block was gone, the ideas flowing freely once more. He was ecstatic, but not as nearly as Lonji was. The little man was beaming from ear to ear as he stooped to pick up his helmet, tears brimming in his eyes. “Thank you, sir. Thank you! My people will be so glad to know that the end of their suffering is in sight. I must go back to them now to tell them the good news. With any luck, my people will be filled with new hope and will rally together against the remaining abominations until we are finally freed. But don’t think this is goodbye. You’ll be writing us into existence soon. Maybe by next year.” He winked. “You might have the first book ready for editing by then.”

Richard made a mental note of the deadline, but for once it didn’t feel like a dreadful one. “So what will you do now?”

Lonji shrugged. “Fanfiction control. Fighting off sparkling vampires, mutated celebrities, and the occasional pocket monster. Hunting down Nazis, sentient cars, and people from random coffee commercials. I might even help prevent an alien takeover. Just the usual.” He pulled a remote control from within his spacesuit, stopping for a moment to just stare at Richard and smile. “You know, not many of my people will believe that I met you. What I’m doing is top secret back home. Only a few people are aware of it, and most of them are just the scientists who work on the time machine. Can’t have everyone know that we have a technology that lets us meet our maker, especially with the wars that are going on. Don’t want any fanfiction characters coming to this universe to meet their creators, you know. That would be disastrous.”

Richard was privately chilled by the thought, but he managed a faint smile. “Well…I suppose so.”

“But even still,” Lonji went on, “I want you to know that I’ll never forget this moment. It’s been an honor, sir.” He bowed, then pulled his helmet down tightly over his head. He smiled through the visor before pressing a button on the remote. The air around him rippled and wavered, a blinding flash of light engulfing him like a ball of celestial energy. Electric crackling filled the room, and a rush of air sent papers flying everywhere again. After everything had gone silent except for the ringing in his ears, Richard blinked his eyes several times, trying to clear his vision of spots. When they were gone, he looked around the room, noting the scattered pages on the floor with detached interest. A glance at the window told him it was still dark outside, and checking his watch told him that his encounter had lasted for a little more than fifteen minutes, though it had felt like much longer. And now that it was over, he was left to question whether it had all been real, or just a really intense hallucination. Besides, it had only been a few moments since Lonji had gone, and Richard was already beginning to feel the vividness of his encounter fading. Was it only a dream? It was entirely possible he had fallen asleep while trying to write, and his brain had only made up the whole episode. He could have passed out in his chair and hit his head on the back of it, explaining why his head was aching. As for the papers scattered all over the floor, it was entirely possible he’d knocked them off his desk when he fell asleep. If the fell asleep.

He considered these things as he let his gaze wander over the papers spread across his desk. He noticed one that had been pushed away from all the others, and he smiled a little when he saw a black smudge on the edge that could have been a tiny spaceman’s footprint, but it was too blurry to tell. But that’s all that Richard needed to stir his imagination. He glanced at the clock, noting the hour. It was late, but this time sleeping could wait. He made himself more comfortable in his chair, picked up his pen, and began to write.

Comments