The Spark

"So, what is creativity?"

Thomas drummed his pencil against a blank notepad. Bolded at the top, Creative Writing 248, a mess of shaded sketches dotted its sides.

He chewed his lip and scanned over the wide, hundred-seat auditorium. From the balcony, it looked like a miniature coliseum. Every seat centered around a raised podium. There, Professor Dr. Brown stood before a screen littered with bullet points.

Among his peers, a plague of exhaustion sickened their posture. Many students' chests rose with soft, gradual breaths as they slept. A few seats down from Thomas, one's head bobbed on her neck as if in a battle with her mind.

Regarding Dr. Brown's question, not one student answered. His professor frowned and twirled the end of his mustache.

"I take it we're not much of the morning type," Dr. Brown said through his microphone.

"That's OK. We'll see how awake some of you are... for Friday's exam."

Like needles set beneath each seat, the auditorium jolted awake. Slumped shoulders straightened and heavy eyelids flung open. Every head snapped toward the board as pencil scratches filled the air.

Dr. Brown glowed with a sly smile. He turned back to the slideshow and resumed his lesson.

By then, it was already too late for Thomas.

He drifted not through slumber, but his mind. From the outside, it looked as if Thomas settled for a quick power nap. Rather, he fell through a myriad of rabbit holes that led him through strange worlds. Ideas became stories, and stories became realities. Fathomed concepts, themes, and characters floated about like leaves atop an autumn creek.

In the far reaches of his imagination, Thomas sensed a lone spark. Like molding clay on a potter's wheel, he clung to it and warped its flame into being. Life and possibility, all at the will of his fingers.

Something clicked, and Thomas no longer sat in the auditorium.

The stenches of ash scorched his nose first. As Thomas awoke, he shied as a radiant orange light blinded him for a moment. He squinted through it and assumed it was nothing more than the sun. Though, as his eyes adjusted to the brightness, a pit formed in his chest.

Flames sprouted from the shattered windows of every building. They stretched past the roofs and lapped in the night sky.

Thomas staggered as a foreign weight tugged on his shoulders. He lowered and studied his steel armor. Orange brushes splashed over the silver plates.

Other people dressed similarly appeared at his sides. They approached in lines forward with swords at the ready. Some carried spears, spears, and bows. One, a knight with dark hair, held a banner adorned with two dragons. They danced about each other, not in battle, but rather in harmony.

A pressure tightened around his shoulder. Thomas peered over it to a hand below a narrow-chinned face. A man dressed in robes fixed with a cheery expression glowed with the familiarity of a decade-old friend. In his other hand, he held a staff fixed with a crystal glittered like a star.

"Glad to see you could make it brother," the wizard said. "It's always good to have you around in times like-"

The man's expression darkened. He staggered backward and pointed his staff above Thomas' shoulder. His eyes quivered in their sockets.

"Dragon!"

Every head snapped toward the two. They spilled over each other as they retreated backward between alleys and into abandoned buildings. Others hid behind their shields while others dropped to the ground in prayer.