The Creator

He was an old man and feeble. Then one day, he awoke in a strange place feeling less old and more like the self he’d known years before. He stood in a brightly lit room with vaguely familiar objects all around him. Outside, there was more light and the distant sound of laughter.

It occurred to him, as he stood looking about, that he didn't feel the aching in his knees nor was it there in his back or his feet. He smiled to himself—something he hadn’t done in years. He noticed, too, that his eyesight was sharp. Then he fancied he could smell the freshness in the air. Another smile.

He decided quickly it was a dream. He tried to focus on the sagging mattress he knew himself to be sleeping on, but try as he might, he could not feel the springs rubbing annoyingly on his right hip—for he always slept on his right side, and the springs always stung him.

He took to counting: it was a trick he used whenever a bad dream took him over. He first pictured the number drawn in large, bold strokes on a blackboard. Once the number was fully formed, he thought it out in his head as loudly as he could. Then he went to work on the next number. In this manner, he was able to awaken himself before reaching ten. Only this time, he was nearing twenty, and he was still standing in his dream surrounded by brightness and things somewhat familiar.

“I’ll try another tactic,” he said aloud, and the words seemed to echo and vibrate and send ripples though the air and the room. The leaves of the plants rustled every-so-slightly, and for a moment, he felt fear.

In the middle of the room was a large easel with paper, and all around him were brushes and paints and sticks of charcoal and pastel. He would make the numbers himself he thought, and so he did. But as he reached five, it occurred to him he might make other things, and so he began by imagining the smile of his long-dead wife, and as he imagined, his hand moved the brush on the paper and before he knew it, he heard her voice.

He opened his eyes expecting to find her, but he remained alone in the room, and he felt a deep sadness. Then he noticed the paper in front of him was blank, and his sadness turned to fear.

Surely, I’ve gone mad, the man thought to himself. He looked for a door to exit the room, but saw he was closed in. I'm mad and I’m locked up. That's the answer.

But in his heart, he knew this wasn't true, and as frightened as he was, he returned to the easel and took up another brush.

I shall paint myself a door, he thought, and then I shall walk though it and awaken. And so he painted a door. And as he painted, he heard the creaking of the hinges, for it was the door from his father’s workshop he had imagined, and the basement door—his father’s workshop was in the basement—had always squeaked eerily.

The man opened his eyes, and there was, now, a door in his room, and it looked just like the door he remembered leading down, down, down to his father’s workshop. He stepped to it, and reached out, but the door had no knob, and as he examined it, he saw it had no dimension: it was but a false door painted on a real wall.

“What am I to do?” He shouted out in anger, and the sound of his own voice rang so loudly in his ears it took him to his knees.

“You must decide” came the answer—and the answer was in his own head, and it helped soothe the pain there.

Decide what? He thought. What must I decide? He waited for an answer, but none came, and so he listened more intently. He concentrated and slowed his breathing and willed the voice to answer him. But there was nothing. The voice was gone.

The man walked around and around the room, and time passed. He began to cry—something he hadn't done since he was a small boy—and his tears soothed him like the voice in his head had done.

Finally, the man sat cross-legged on the floor. He looked directly at the easel, and as he watched, one image after another appeared and then vanished from the paper. The images had a familiar quality to them, but the man could not put his finger on the reason.

Occasionally, he would recognize an image outright: his son; the tree he had climbed as a child; the first home he and his wife had bought. But mixed with these images were the faces of strangers and places and things he did not remember.

The images stopped, and the man wondered if it were a sort of intermission. He looked around and listened—for what, he wasn't certain, but it seemed the thing to do.

Presently, he arose from where he sat, took up a brush, and painted a brilliant and beautiful sunset. This time, he did not close his eyes as he painted, and as each stroke hit the paper, the image came more and more alive until the walls of the room dropped away and the heat from the setting sun washed over him.

The man finished his painting and carefully washed the pigment from the brush. He took a step back to admire what he'd done, and felt satisfaction. He watched the paint dry, and when it had, he reached for the paper, tore it from the pad, and rolled it into a tube which he tucked under his arm.

Then he was back in the room, but this time, his wife was there and the door to his father’s workshop had depth and a knob, and as he reached for his wife’s hand, he felt a deep sense of joy as together, they stepped though the door.

Outside, in a world that no longer mattered, the man lay in a hospital bed and took one final breath. Situated on his face was a smile, and all around him were the many paintings he had created while awaiting this day.