The writer

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He sat at his desk, letting out a sigh of satisfaction as he contemplated everything neatly tied up. Mess and clutter would undoubtedly have been distractions, and the task needed all his attention. He powered up the device, taking comfort in its familiar buzzing. He stretched an arm and turned on the old record player, which started to fill the room with a peaceful piano tune subtly punctuated by white noise.
That was his ritual. All the pieces of the puzzle neatly falling into place. It helped him build the focus and clarity of mind needed to establish the connection. All of this, even the device, were simply ornament, accessories without real effect. The actual power was in his mind. The rest was but esoteric talismans whose only purpose was to calibrate his brain to the right state.
Then came the hard part. For even with favorable conditions, forming a link to the Other World was never a given. Practice helped, but magic was capricious and could rebel at any time. He tried many things, and never found any secret to guarantee the process. He just had to do his best to empty is mind, and hope that the other side would respond.
His fingers started dancing, stroking the device, in a mystical ritual to summon the spirits. In thoughts, he reached out towards the familiar ghosts, hoping his courting would gain their favors. Through time and space did he extend the limbs of his psyche, so as to touch this distant dimensions where no man had ever roamed.
He could almost feel the connection to the Other World forming, but it was one of these things were looking directly at it would make it disappear. He had to flirt and tiptoe his way around the frail portal, for the weight of acknowledgement would surely crush it like a soap bubble.
He carried on the occult rite until the green landscapes of another universe extended in front of him. As the astral projection was in its infancy, everything around was shifty and blurry, but he knew how to use his powers to fix the fabric of reality with a few strokes of brush. And as he consolidated the world around him, it seemed to become richer.
The grass grew more vivid, birds started chirping, the wind swiftly rose and caressed his face with his refreshing touch. He took a few steps in the newly formed meadow, dipped his hand into the tickling verdure, sucked in the crisp air of a foreign land. The transfer had been a success.
And there they were, right where he had last seen them. The empty bodies of his beloved companions lay inanimate on the ground. He picked them up, got them to stand on their feet, made them move as if they were puppets. Their motions were first groggy and confused, as they had just woken from their slumber.
But soon the daze started to fade away, and the dolls were moving on their own, simply going through the motions. He did not have to touch them anymore, telepathy was enough to influence them. He could just mind control them through the power of suggestion. After the initial thrust, they didn’t need more than a nudge every now and then.
The hold his mind had over them grew looser and looser, but he did not notice it. He was still feeling in control, watching his pawns in action, too busy rejoicing over their liveliness to realize they did not need him anymore. He went on contemplating them and trying to persuade himself he was still in charge, blissfully unaware that someone was literally doing the same to him…

One thought on “The writer

  1. Pingback: Short stories index | AMadManWithABlog

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