Unwritten

Unwritten: Brendan James Johnson

Brendan has always wanted to write in a storm. He's not sure why that is. Maybe it's the atmosphere of it all, the pathetic fallacy of his thoughts brewing as the thunder rumbles, of inspiration striking while lightning flashes. Maybe it's the danger of it all, the adrenaline it sends rushing through his veins. He doesn't care what it is much, either. It's not something he'd ever have considered doing.

Except that now he is. It's a horrible decision, of course, but isn't that what this trip is for? When he sees the clouds in the distance, dark and grey and creeping towards him, more threatening with each passing second, his heart races his chest. According to his publisher, what his books are missing to be a hit is some sort of passion. Heat. Something more than two men, hidden away in a room, going at it for as long as they can. And surely, danger provides just that.

Thunder cracks above him. Wind swipes across the sea, pushing foam across the top of the waters, swirling and frothing until it looks like it might jump up at any time and swallow him whole. But Brendan doesn't care. His mind is spinning, already, bubbling like the waters before him. He imagines a man climbing from the dark depths of the ocean, trident in hand, beard down to the top of his tail. He's never written fantasy before – only fantasies – but the thought nags at him. He wants to try. He needs to try. It tugs at his brain, pulls at his heart, grabs him by the throat until he's panting, then drops him back onto the ground. Write me! It screams. He screams, whoever he is. Brendan could swear the merman is right in front of him, his tail splitting into perfectly toned legs, muscular and tan and framing something that could only belong to a god.

Then Brendan blinks. And the man is gone.

He rubs his eyes again, hoping this will bring the man back, but nothing. All he hears is the voice again, guiding Write me! It chants, over and over, luring Brendan towards the sea and then pushing him away, ebbing and flowing with each passing gust. Write me! And he would, really, only he doesn't know how. There's no paper, no pen, no laptop, nothing but words, screaming at the top of their unwritten lungs as they swirl around his mind, refusing him a single moment's rest. Write me!

So he does. When he was a kid, Brendan would sit on the beach and trace stories in the sand with his finger. They weren't any good, but at his age that was to be expected. He remembers, still, giggling as he spent hours on the beach, tracing tales in the sand about merfolk and sea demons and whatever else might lie below the waves.

The waters bubble now, frothing with a shade of colours Brendan never would have expected: blue and green, of course, but hints of yellow, orange, red, even bright pink, all bubbling up one after the other, reflecting the stormy sunset overhead. It looks as though someone might have dropped a bath bomb in the middle of the sea, but that expectation seems too easy. Too mundane. He knows there's a bigger story here. There's always a bigger story. Sometimes, it's something the human brain could only imagine, but that can't stop him. It doesn't stop him. Smiling, Brendan places his finger in the sand and traces, watching as his letters loop in a messy handwriting he never uses anymore. It's been so long since the last time he wrote something by hand. Everything is typed these days, and everything else is forgotten. Or lost. Vanished forever, because even in his mind it doesn't come out the exact same way. Maybe that was his own fall, his own exile from Eden. Maybe, frozen behind a screen, clicking at buttons to robotically throw out the thoughts inside him, he lost what made his writing human. What makes him human.

I don't care what you are. I know you're out there. I saw you, and you saw me, and I think that's the moment when we clicked. When I blinked, and you vanished, you didn't escape from my mind. You didn't dodge my heart.

When's the last time he wrote in the first person? He doesn't remember. He's always writing about someone else, even if that someone is a coded version of himself. But there's no code, now, no script of any sort, nothing to hide behind. Just him and the elements and the man, out there somewhere, lost in the cage of his mind.

I'm intruding on your paradise, aren't I? Or just a little off of it – a little east of Eden, as it were? I'm sitting on your beach, at the border of your world, and you can feel me. Like a weight, pressing against the line between us. Drag me in, then. I dare you. I want you to. Drown me. Pull me under the waves and do with me what you want, throw me around like you toss your waves. Swing me back and forth with your will, and make me do what you want. I'll obey, I promise. Show me what it means to be alive. God, I just need to know.

Brendan doesn't notice it, but the storm around him is dying – but that's not the right word. It rages, still, throwing the beach around as if it weighed nothing, coating the sky in a veil of darkness, except when lightning rips it in half. But, around Brendan, there's an oasis of peace. Like a tiny clearing amidst the biggest forest anyone has ever seen. The wind spins around it, pushing out any rain that could stop him or thunder that might startle him. It's just him and his words, staring out at the sea, wondering what might be out there.

I don't expect you to come right away, he writes. Or ever, really. I'm just a person, a single grain of sand amongst millions, but I'll be waiting, just in case. I want you to know that. I want you to know that you'll always be hidden inside me, like a fever waiting to spread the moment I see your face. I will always be under your control, waiting for you to say the word. You will own me, and I will be yours – all you have to do is ask. Drag me from the skies and throw me into your grasp. I will not mourn the loss of my life, of my flight, of my thrill. I will be yours, through and through, to hold, to use, and to dispose of.

Yours,

Icarus

Brendan blinks. He doesn't know where the name comes from, or even the message itself. It's more abstract than anything he's ever written, and darker, too. Like a fetish piece that took a turn for the artistic, written by someone who thinks themselves much greater than they are. There's a desperation to it. A longing. Something animal, almost, like nothing he's ever felt or even written.

Weird.

He shakes it off and stands up, noticing how the storm has stopped overhead. It's about time. He has to go back to his room, now, back to his writing. He's seriously behind on Hoe Down, and if he doesn't have something in soon, his publisher will have his head. It may be trash, but it'll pay a few bills. That's all it needs to do, right?

He doesn't notice that the sea hasn't quite calmed yet. And, once he's turned around, he doesn't see it swallow his offering.

He doesn't see it watching him.