I’m writing this with my pen, my ageless pen, the only thing keeping me alive; I’m a pengician. Whoever you are reading this, know that you’re the next form of life, and the dead have risen up to the clouds. Our specie is a dying race because of Joe(another maker of ink magic); Joe resurfaced and brought the world to an end, armmaggedon as we know it, or knew it.
It happened this way:
Philip and his wife Anulika were distraught and downcast as yet another doctor emerged to tell them, “I’m sorry, there’s nothing we can do, we can’t help your son.” Their faces, which had already fallen, fell again. Philip stood up from the seat with some difficulty, he was fatigued and hungry. They had been moving from one hospital to another, from one town to the other, skipping across the country in a frenzy, determined to save their only child, and so far, it seemed they had been chasing shadows.
They avoided my gaze,looking everywhere except my face.
“He’ll die,” I said, “it’s no use, Philip. I couldn’t do anything then, nothing can be done now. It’s happened before.” Their combined glare sent shivers running down my spine, the anger was raw, the pain bitter,and something in that was dark, very dark.
“Just because you had some useless dreams…”
“shhhh, ” Philip wrapped his arms around his wife of fifteen years, he knew better than to let her get on with her hysterics. I was their friend, but I was also something else.
Philip turned to me, a line of sweat running down the side of his big head, chameleoning into the darkness of his complexion, “Acho, can’t you do something, please?” His eyes were pleading and my heart gave way, but I could do nothing, not if I wanted to live,not if I wanted the world to be.
“I’m sorry, friend. There’s no way to bring him back.”
“You’re lying! It can’t be! There’s always a way, you told me that.”
I hadn’t expected his outburst, but I understood, his child, his only child was dying.
“But you’re a magician!” His wife had joined in, desperation giving them strength to argue, to shout, to do anything except watching their son die.
“You should eat something.” I turned and walked out.
The possibility window had closed, I had tried explaining it to Philip, but he wouldn’t listen, he just wouldn’t. Only one thing could be done now, and that would be the beginning of the end as we know it. I wouldn’t bring the end of the world, I wouldn’t.
My pen could do nothing, nothing except to bring destruction on the world by saving this one young boy of whom things were written. These things, these events that were to befall us are Contained in the holy literature: is it not better that one man dies for many? It was something like that, I couldn’t recall all. And there was also, “the dead shall rise…” The dead shall rise, and who knows how much havoc they will wrought on earth before they would go up into the clouds. It was simple: if one living man died to save the world world, then a dead will rise or be raised to doom the world.
It was night when I went back to the hospital again, where the excitement which seemed contagious bore a hole of fear deep into my being. Philip rushed out and hugged me, “my son, the monitor shows his heartbeats are back to normal. The doctor says his internal organs are functioning properly, it will be a matter of time before he wakes up.” I took all this in without seeing the nurses and doctors moving about self-importantly like a world saving crew. My phone beeped, a new message on Facebook from Joe Aito, I didn’t know he was back, it read: the dead will rise again. The doctor ran out then, confusion and awe struggling for the control of his face.
“Mr Philip, your son is dead, and alive. I’ve never seen anything like this before. He has been dead for some time… ”
That was when trouble started…