“Gentlemen.” Darius and his would-be assassin turned around to see a short, stocky middle-aged man in glasses walking towards them.
“Hello Darius,” he said, and then looking at the man in the thick coat, he added, “Hello my friend, I hadn’t thought of a name for you yet.”
“Who are you? And how do you know my name?” Darius asked.
“I’m Tobias Fogg. I’m the one who created you, Darius. I’m a writer, and we’re in my story,” he looked around and added “or whatever is left of it.”
Rain stopped, but the sky was still dark and gloomy. It had now shifted from colour to Eastman to Black and White.
“What? What is happening?”
Everything was exactly as he had written. “You see, I’m a writer. I was writing this story when I died. My last thoughts during my dying moments brought me here, in my afterlife.”
“What are you talking about? Are you saying that we’re figments of your imagination?”
“What is real and what is imaginary? Isn’t everything an illusion? You didn’t know that you were part of my imagination until I told you so, did you?”
“All right, so what was going to happen to me in your story?” Darius asked.
“You were going to die.”
“Okay, so do I kill him then? And what is my motive?” the man in the coat asked, itching for action.
“No, I think all that changed when I died in real life.” Tobias replied. “You see, people in real life control the world of imagination. With my death, all the things I had envisioned in this story have now started to fade.”
“In this world of imagination, everyone is merely an actor playing the part their creator intends them to. It is the writer who controls everyone and everything.” He continued.
“So with you gone, who decides what happens next?” The man in the coat asked, impatiently. “And for God’s sake, what is my name?”
“Can the story write itself?” Darius quipped. “Maybe we should decide the direction the story should take.”
All three of them looked at each other.
“Good point. I don’t know if the story can write itself, but I think the story, or the characters in it can influence the writer on the course it should take. I’ve experienced this phenomenon when I was writing, where I felt like the characters were talking to me, telling me what I should do next.”
“So we still need a writer then to decide our fate.”
Tobias looked up. The sky was beginning to clear.