The Creators

Untitled Part 1

I sat at my desk, my aching back hunched over the paper. My pencil ran across the page, the story coming to life. Nothing was going to stop me from writing this, absolutely nothing. I should've been sleeping, for it was three a.m. on a school night -well- morning. My name is Garret, I'm 16, and yes, I write stories. No, I'm not a jock, or popular for that matter. However, in my several conversations with the so called, "popular children", I learned that they are about as boring and disappointing as an empty fridge. So, I stayed with the band geek lot, with a couple of friends. I usually sat there, and went to my own world, or talked over calculus homework.

My parents are okay, we don't really talk, since my mother is always working, or sleeping. She was too worn out to have a relationship with her son, that's okay. Its not like we fight or anything. My dad lives somewhere in India, however, we have no idea whether he is actually still alive. We lost contact with him once he went to the rural areas of the country. My dad wasn't much of a talker really, he had is own way of communicating. People absolutely loved him for that, along with his unconditional love for the human race. I could never comprehend how he was able to just give anything of his back, for someone he didn't now. He was actually a photographer, so he traveled a lot.

We were a pretty close family. But we didn't really talk that much, all of us would sit in silence at the dinner table, not in an awkward silence, more like enjoying just the sense of someone else next to you.

However, this isn't his story.

Like every other day, I awoke to an empty house, and a note on the stove from my mother. I brushed my teeth, and ate some left over rice. Outside, the fog loomed over Boston ominously, the skyline practically invisible, even with the view from our apartment on the twentieth floor. I sipped quietly on black tea, reading over my quick poetry, erasing and rewriting to the sound of rain.

The shuttle crammed in more people, myself standing, reading some Poe, the faces in the crowd ranged from ones you would see as background characters in an anime, to those so unique, I would turn them into characters. How much would I learn to regret this decision later.

School was the same boring curriculum. However, there was talk of a new girl, with a more wild than kpop hairstyle, and a glare that sent one of the football players to the bathroom to puke. Here, in history, she stands before the class, clutching a book in her hands. Her eyes scanned over the crowd before talking. I remember making a young protagonist like her, the angular face, amber-honey eyes.

"My name is Xanthe. I came here from... the west coast." she blinked in my direction.

My hands froze on my short story, feeling the all too familiar feeling of a stare blazing through my skull. Her eyes were trained on me, with hope, and disparity. Mrs. Duvela, an ancient woman who never did anything outside of a book, guided her towards the seat right next to mine.

"Here, sit with Gavin." she patted my shoulder.

"Um, ma'am, my name is Garret."

"That's nice dear, please do your assignment." she hobbled back to her seat.

"I don't want my brother to die, please, keep him in my world." I heard Xanthe whisper, her eyes threatening to spill tears.

My hands stopped thumbing through the text book, looking over to the girl next to me.

"W-What?"

"Garret, meet up with me during lunch. It's important;whatever you do, don't write anymore of my story until I am with you." her eyes soaking the tears.

"What do you mean, your story?!" I replied.

"Gavin, no talking when the assignment is out." Mrs. Duvela spoke out to me.

"My name is- yes ma'am ." I went red in the face, I hated being called out, especially in these sort of ways.

I waited it out until lunch, my fingers itching to write and create,but I had to keep my promise.