Many were the nights that Allister sat at his little desk, palm to face. He would grind a pen in his teeth and scratch vigorously at his head with his free hand. The blank page in front of him laughed in the way only blank page can, a silent but bullying giggle. How pompous that white page was. Staring so glib, so cocky. Allister would later recount to me that there came a breaking a point as seconds teetered past and the page sat there completely still, focusing all its energy in an upwards mocking of mouthless, eyeless arrogance. Those passing by the window of Allister's study would have seen Allister's desperate retaliation, would have seen Allister shout red-faced and with all his might, "You do not know me," at a sheet of paper.
And it was only a temporary victory for Allister. A moment of shock that distracted the paper from its bullying glance. Or perhaps, the sudden rush of blood to the face had merely blurred Allister's vision so that the paper seemed ruffled. Regardless, there were only mere seconds between either the paper gathering its malevolent wits or Allister's vision collecting itself into proper vision. This is what brought Allister's gaze to rest upon the worn leather bound pages resting on the shelf not nearly behind him. This is what set Allister's hand reaching to touch Hugo's.
Allister's grasp retrieved the book, brought it to rest beside the blank page. Opened the cover, scanned the clearly written pages that spilled over with letters that fell into words that fell into sentences that fell into paragraphs that breathed life. And decades after its first publication, without so much as a thought to copyright infringement, Allister began writing The Hunchback of Notre Dame. This was an attempt to shut up a silent sheet of glaring white. To cover it’s mocking face with letters and words, sentences and paragraphs. They were Hugo's, of course. And Allister knew this. But, the paper did not.
Beyond his hand's guidance of the pen in Hugo's words, Allister moved not. The paper giggled not-only sat there and swallowed the words of Hugo's being force fed from Allister's pen. There occurred, midway through the writing of the novel, a revelation that perhaps this mindless copying would unlock a novel buried deep inside Allister. For days, Allister ate only Hugo and spat his words back out onto blank sheets as quickly as he chewed them. The paper sat and, sheet after sheet, was covered in ink. And when it was all done, his hands covered in ink blotches and dripping, Allister laughed and laughed. And laughed and laughed. For a second he gathered up the air around him, pulled it in, exhaled, and laughed and laughed until exhaustion and mal-nutrition sent him into unconsciousness. A fraud to many, but a victor to himself.
When Allister awoke, he never did find a novel beyond the pages of already written works. If there was one locked deep inside him, it remained there. There was also the possibility that perhaps it was locked in his appendix-which had been removed at an early age. But, this can be said. Never again did a sheet of paper dare to challenge Allister.
And it was only a temporary victory for Allister. A moment of shock that distracted the paper from its bullying glance. Or perhaps, the sudden rush of blood to the face had merely blurred Allister's vision so that the paper seemed ruffled. Regardless, there were only mere seconds between either the paper gathering its malevolent wits or Allister's vision collecting itself into proper vision. This is what brought Allister's gaze to rest upon the worn leather bound pages resting on the shelf not nearly behind him. This is what set Allister's hand reaching to touch Hugo's.
Allister's grasp retrieved the book, brought it to rest beside the blank page. Opened the cover, scanned the clearly written pages that spilled over with letters that fell into words that fell into sentences that fell into paragraphs that breathed life. And decades after its first publication, without so much as a thought to copyright infringement, Allister began writing The Hunchback of Notre Dame. This was an attempt to shut up a silent sheet of glaring white. To cover it’s mocking face with letters and words, sentences and paragraphs. They were Hugo's, of course. And Allister knew this. But, the paper did not.
Beyond his hand's guidance of the pen in Hugo's words, Allister moved not. The paper giggled not-only sat there and swallowed the words of Hugo's being force fed from Allister's pen. There occurred, midway through the writing of the novel, a revelation that perhaps this mindless copying would unlock a novel buried deep inside Allister. For days, Allister ate only Hugo and spat his words back out onto blank sheets as quickly as he chewed them. The paper sat and, sheet after sheet, was covered in ink. And when it was all done, his hands covered in ink blotches and dripping, Allister laughed and laughed. And laughed and laughed. For a second he gathered up the air around him, pulled it in, exhaled, and laughed and laughed until exhaustion and mal-nutrition sent him into unconsciousness. A fraud to many, but a victor to himself.
When Allister awoke, he never did find a novel beyond the pages of already written works. If there was one locked deep inside him, it remained there. There was also the possibility that perhaps it was locked in his appendix-which had been removed at an early age. But, this can be said. Never again did a sheet of paper dare to challenge Allister.
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