Katja’s Contest Entry

SHADOWS

Writing is such a powerful thing. To create a new world, out of nothing, and shape it in any way you like – powerful! You can make it a place you would want to live in, and you can equally easily make it a place no one would want to live in. Black letters on an empty page make up a life under your control.

‘A strikingly purple animal was flying through the air, clearly visible on the deep blue sky of another world. Muscles moving with enchanting speed under the thick smooth skin of the wings, strong… yet so vulnerable.

Ash leaned forward, hastily linking his hands around the dragon’s wide neck, before she dove into a dizzying spin towards the floor. “Aaaaaaaaa!” he screamed. He will never get used to this.’

Addictive as it is, one would think it is also easy. However, it is but the contrary – the hardest thing. Pouring your thoughts and inner images on paper is one of the most interesting processes; so much is written about it, it has been so many times discussed… But weirdly, at the end of the day, it stays something you cannot put into words. It must be experienced in order to be understood.

‘He indeed never got used to it. Because in the next moment, he felt something crash heavily into his chest and a pure white arrow pierced his thin jacket and his dark skin, plunging itself deeply between the two of his ribs. When the metallic point reached his heart with expected precision, his hands slipped silently off the dragon’s neck, no longer feeling the polished surface, and he fell.’

And because of that, you cannot learn how to invent a new world and characters that live in it. Not from a book, not from internet, and not from anywhere else. You can read about it all you want, but you will never be able to write it if it does not come from within you. The stories live inside you, and they are you. It is a part of you that you can give to the world, the part of you that changes our world.

She looked away from the computer screen. “You’re not crying, are you?” he asked, and only then she noticed him standing there, abruptly pulled out of her story. She shook her head and started sobbing. “Who is it this time?” he asked, his voice carefully gentle. He sat down on the bed and took the laptop from her. “Don’t read it!” she pulled the computer back. “No one is supposed to see it!” Tears were still running down her cheeks, making the collar of her shirt wet, but he saw the determination in her eyes and let it go. She set it aside and crawled into his lap. “I had to,” came the barely audible whisper as he pulled her closer.

Even more important than writing, is making your stories available for others. With your own mind, you can create wonderful things. But only when other people believe in them and love them too, those stories really come to life. When someone reads what you’ve written, it begins to grow inside them and it makes them a different person.

In the end, she gave up and let him read it. He knew she would, she always did. Her stories had no meaning without him as a reader – he was the one she wrote for.

But when he finished, he wished with all his being she hadn’t allowed him the privilege this time. It was horrible! His hands were clenched into fists as he paced the room. How could she?! How could she kill Ash? He felt the emptiness inside him, and when a single tear escaped from his eye, he realized he was crying for a boy who was born inside his wife’s head and only existed on paper. Not even that actually, he was a mere compilation of letters on a computer screen.

He seemed real enough to him.

Which is exactly why it is so important what you write about. Supposing you make a world of fear and horror and never give readers any light, what starts inside them is equally dark. And with every person who reads your work, the world becomes a bit more menacing.

‘Lying on the floor was the broken body of a young man. His skin dark and bloody, his features barely recognizable. Despite that, she knew the moment she saw him in the midst of all the other bodies. She would know him anywhere. She braced herself and walked the short distance, her steps steady and her eyes dry. She’s cried enough. She sat down on the floor beside him and brushed her fingers lightly over his eyes, closing them. Then her voice rose to the sky, pure and piercing, singing the song with no words. His body lit up from within, and the light consumed him, as it has done with his life hours ago.’

The worse part, however, is not the darkness, but the fact that you cannot fight pure evil with pure light. Not one person has lived their life in complete purity and innocence, so they cannot believe in a world with no night.

“Here,” she pushed the printed papers across the table. “You have to forgive me,” she said with a slight tremor in her voice. Without a reply, he took the papers in his hands and started reading.

After, he looked up at her, standing there. “I’ve forgiven you a week ago,” he whispered. “You had to.”

Our only chance lies in balance – to create a world where there is good and there is bad, there is love and there is hate. Where destruction is already a new beginning. A world with murder, rape, war… But also a world with creation, where sex is about making love, with peace, writers, actors and dancing. A circle with predators and prey. Shadows.

• Mood:accomplished

http://aura55.livejournal.com/613.html