The Author's Story

Timothy lay on his couch. He was tired, circles under his eyes showed it. He was—

“What’s that voice?” Timothy asked. He sat up on the couch, looking for the voice.

This is the Author.

“What? No, seriously, who are you?”

Just trust me, I’m the Author.

“Where did you come from?” Timothy started looking around for the source of the sound. He could hear everything the Author was saying, every little description. He waved around his arm, then he gasped when he heard the Author say that.

“This better not be an elaborate prank. Does my brother have anything to do with this?”

No, I am just narrating a story.

“That’s… so annoying.”

Can I continue my story?

“If you must.”

…As I was saying, dark circles under his eyes from a deficit of sleep. He had—

“There aren’t circles under my eyes,” Timothy argued.

Go check the mirror.

Timothy rolled his eyes, and rolled them again when he realized the Author narrated that part too. Rolling his eyes again, he got off the couch and checked the mirror. Sure enough, there were circles. He gasped.

“Where did these come from?”

As I was saying… He had lost his job a few days prior, and—

“You have to remind me,” he said sarcastically.

Good idea. To remind him of all his other problems, he recently broke up, he has no friends, he’s in debt, and rents his parent’s basement, but is going to get evicted soon.

“WHAT? They are evicting me?”

They haven’t decided so yet, actually. But yes, they will evict Timothy.

“You mean you can predict the future?”

Authors are omniscient.

Timothy sat back down on the couch. He sighed. Timothy began to get very annoyed with the Author. It must have been irritating to have every move you make said, every—

“PLEASE. CAN YOU JUST LEAVE?”

Why would I? I really enjoy writing this.

“That’s cruel!”

I can be cruel, yes, but I make good things happen too.

Some chocolate fell out of the sky into Timothy’s lap.

“You can do that?”

I can do anything. I’m not just omniscient, but also omnipotent.

“Can you give me a million dollars?”

No, that would make a boring story.

“So what am I supposed to do to make you leave?”

Let me finish this story.

“When does the story end?”

When you die.

“WHAT?!”

I’m just kidding. But it’s actually not a bad idea. I could go with you to your new job and describe what your boss looks like. Probably bald, eyebrows thick, frowning at you, constantly disappointed and disapproving. Not a pleasant man.

“Whatever company has a boss like that, I’m not going to work for.”

I can make it so any boss for the rest of your life is like that. Know what? I’ll make it so the next President of the United States will look like that.

“That’s creepy.”

Not as creepy as if I were to go with you to your next date. I can make it really awkward if I want to.

“Please no.”

Anyway, let me get back to the story. Timothy started thinking of ways he could get rid of the Author. Wait, he thought. Is he reading my thoughts?

Yes, I can read your thoughts. Whoa, stop thinking about that. What if there are children reading this?

“You’re sharing this story?”

Of course. What else would I do with a story?

“So the whole world is going to know about me, and this specific moment in time, with a mysterious Author that appeared out of nowhere to haunt me until I die?”

That was a very long explanation.

“I can—wait, hang on.”

What?

“If you’re the Author, and you’re narrating my life, am I your character?”

Yes.

“Wait—I’m confused. Then do all characters in books hear their Author?”

No, of course not. For most, the characters are just little puppets the Author gets to play around with. Characters have no idea their Author is there, giving them bad luck and good luck, sharing their story to the world.

“Then why can I hear you?”

Because I decided to let you hear me.

“Can you stop letting me hear you?”

No.

“Why not?”

I need to finish the story.

“Well are you sure you’re really an Author? Sure, you can make chocolate fall from the sky, or make bald boss threats, but I’m not a puppet. You don’t control me to do anything. You’re not a puppeteer.”

I wouldn’t be so sure, Timothy. I am the one who makes the very words come out of your own mouth. I’m the one who makes you realize, think. I’m the one who makes your heart beat faster, goosebumps crawl down your skin, a chill run down your spine.

Timothy shivered.

And that’s not all, Timothy. I even revise my own words. My own narrations are my puppets.

“I don’t believe you,” Timothy said. “You’re just a voice in my head. I must be crazy.”

I assure you, Timothy, I’m real. My voice will now echo as I speak.

Timothy covered his ears. But the sound thundered in his head anyway. As the Author described this very sentence, his ears rang and he still heard every word crystal clear.

“I could be drunk, or schizophrenic, or just stressed for all I know. But you’re just a voice. You’re not real. I won’t believe it.”

Timothy woke up on his couch. He no longer heard any voice. It was quiet, peaceful, glad that the Author had gone away. Maybe I am crazy, he thought. Or it was all just a dream. Yes, a dream. That makes sense. An Author narrating my life doesn’t. What was I thinking? Why did I think that dream was so real?

How foolish. If only he knew. I’m still watching over him, I still control his life. He just had to believe it wasn’t real, my voice. There we go. That’s what fiction is about.

About time I finish my story. After all, Timothy no longer hears the voice of the Author. What kind of enjoyment can I get from that? A story of a boring man with a boring life?

But I’m still here. Narrating his life. I’m the Author.