In Brief: The Conjurer

You know what they say about being friends with writers: there's a great possibility you might end up as a character in one of his stories.

But then again, everyone knows I've done a series of concept-stories about my friends before-- nothing new there. And for the past few stories I've done, I've centered a character with a particular person in mind. For Vin's anthology, I wrote one of the antagonists based on a real-life tattoo artist I know. For the Gaiman contest, I thought it would be fun to base it on charles.

This one's for Dean. I'm starting on his book Salamanca and frankly, I couldn't resist creating a character based on him for a story I had in mind. In fact, it's quite fun writing this one...

The national artist and icon Alfaro de Asis knew he had run out of words to write. Literally.

When Alfaro complained to his Russian wife and fellow writer, Nikita, she only clucked her tongue and shoo-ed him out from the kitchen: “Silly man! You cannot run out of words to write. You have been writing since you were a child. And you will die with a pen in hand. Or in this case, your keyboard at your fingertips!”

Despite the irony of her words, Alfaro only harrumphed but did not say a word more. He knew when his wife was right and when she was wrong. However, this time, he knew she was both.

He sat down once more in front of his computer and stared at the pulsing cursor on the screen. Beside the computer, his first Palanca award for short story—A Handful of Stars written almost 40 years ago—seemed to glare at him like a short, squat dwarf. Then he realized it was his reflection staring back at him.

“So what are you going to do now?” the distorted gray-topped face with glass-framed eyes said back at him.

He looked around his writing room, filled with various statues and awards he gained from his writing. One wall was lined with all the material he had ever written: several novels, a number of collection of his short stories, folders of his essays and book reviews, sheaves of his one-act plays, television scripts, and even his children’s books. Two other walls were lined with books—either by friends and colleagues or those he thought were an indispensable part of a writer’s life.

It was a life lived in the service of the Word. However, it seemed like his God had deserted him.

“I cannot not write,” he pronounced matter-of-factly, like declaring his name. And despite feeling the disgust of self-pity, he thought about killing himself. “After all, there’s a long line of writers who’ve done the same. Hemingway, for one. Plath is another—though I’m not sure about sticking my head into the oven.”

“But not because they couldn’t write,” said the reflection back to him.

“That’s true,” he nodded, feeling a bit relieved that he wouldn’t have to kill himself. Then he grimaced; the reflection did the same: “But this still isn’t going to work. I cannot write a damn thing!”

Then he turned off the computer in a pique.

The story goes on a bit after this but I didn't want to bore you with a long post. Suffice to say, the world is a stranger place after de Asis' writings is released in the wild.

Ah, speculative fiction, what would ye do with me?