My last story will be about how they died. They walked, each of them, all in different directions, all into the twilight. Easy to do, when that's all that surrounds you. Their shapes were all different, multivariate like their characters, their genres, their inspirations. Here was a one eyed Cyclops, taller than a dozen skyscrapers, a spiked club in one hand, resting on his shoulder. There was a pirate captain, who rode black holes into other realities, who whisked a small boy into adventures none would ever imagine. A band of thieves, the first murderer, a doctor whose dreams finally came true, even a man who time-travels into his future to give testimony at his own divorce proceedings, they are all there, walking away from me.
This is a eulogy, a poorly written one, for the stories that are dead, and the ones that will never be alive. It shall have to do. I shall think about them, often. I will see scenes in my head, of an orphan trying to learn how to survive in space, of another court of Haroun-al-Raschid and its wacky hijinks. Maybe one day I'll learn how to bring them back, coax them with words and carrots and sticks. Maybe it'll work.
Until then, I'll write about what I have been writing about so far. Another version of the story of the seventh avatar of Vishnu, where many details are forgotten or written over, in the hope of creating something new.
Rama + Ayana
The Journey of the Prince of Ayodhya