Their Dreams Write our Lives
By: John Miller
We were alone.
“You’re an ordinary man and so am I,” he explained. “The difference between you and me is that I was born into a family that owned and operated a successful business. It’s not what I am that makes me great, but what happened to me—I was born into wealth. This authority also gave me power over people like you who work for me.
“I became even greater when the Order of Chaos approached me, invited me to join. Now it’s your turn. It must feel like you’ve won the lottery since the Storytellers have asked you to join them. Again, I reiterate: it’s not what a man does that makes him great, it’s what happens to him that makes him great.”
“No, I don’t believe that,” I told him. “Human character and inner resolve isn’t a factor in your theory.”
“We want you to turn your back on the Storytellers,” he implored. “We want you to join the Order of Chaos.”
I stood and walked toward the drawer next to the kitchen sink. Inside was the .45 magnum Spenser had given me the previous week. In all the rewrites and edits of my life, he couldn’t keep track of all the details, and I just remembered it was there.
“Don’t try to run,” he told me. “I can call back the shadow-demons with a mental command. I wrote that into the script, you might say.” I turned and saw him grin. “Also, I have (a) .38 Special in my shoulder holster and—”
His jaw dropped when he saw the .45 magnum in my hand.
“You wouldn’t!” he said. He stood to his full height, a slow effect created by shock and fear. “I’ll call the demons back!”
“That tells me you haven’t done it yet,” I said. “By the way, Spenser: you weren’t that good of an editor.”
The bang of the magnum sounded like a cannon inside my little kitchen. As soon as I fired, the size of the kitchen changed, grew and enlarged, and it became the kitchen of my mansion. In the span of one gunshot, I went from a journalist to an editor of a major newspaper. The sudden onslaught of rewritten new memories didn’t shock me, and it surprised me when it felt natural unlike last time my entire life and memories changed.
Simon sat and shook his head to clear it. I smiled as I saw a shadow-demon disappear in thin air as it rushed at the kitchen window. I didn’t know what was happening, but I liked it.
“God, that hurt!” Simon said with his hand held to his side.
I helped him stand and we looked at his side. I saw a large splotch of blood soaked into his shirt, and I watched the crimson splotch shrink until gone. Spenser’s body burst into smokeless flame and burned until gone. The kidney on my breakfast table shriveled to raisin-size, and Simon carried it to the garbage with a napkin.
“Can’t get much on the Chinese Black Market for the kidney now,” I said. Simon chuckled. “Why is everything changing, Simon?”
The window to my left widened and showed an estate with a circular drive. The kitchen in my mansion was in the front of my house—the house of a successful editor. I saw a servant walk by, and she smiled as she passed. A Mercedes appeared in the circular drive.
“The Storytellers must have rewritten what your boss did,” Simon replied. “They rewrote the threads of your story, changed the plot and background to match the story you had created for yourself yesterday.”
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