The rough-hewed walls of the cave sparkled with pyrite. In the front of the cave was a log fire, which kept the small area around the fire warm enough that I could take off my coat. There didn’t seem to be anyone in the cave, but myself even though there had to be someone there to keep the fire going.
I saw piles of notebooks stacked against the cave wall. When I picked up one of the notebooks I could see the dirt ground into the cover. Inside the notebook someone had written stories and words. There were also scratches and blotches on the paper. I set the notebook down on a small table, which held an inkwell and quill. There had to be someone here.
I sat on the floor with another of the notebooks, trying to read the stories. I threw the notebook down when I realized that each of the stories were missing an ending. There was no resolution. It was like someone had put a paren on one end of a thought and forgot to close it with another paren. I was curious before, but now I was furious. Who would do this?
“May I help you?” asked a soft voice that came out of the darkest part of the cave.
“Where are the endings,” I asked with barely concealed irritation.
“It’s a long story,” the voice whispered.
“I have all day,” I answered. I had all night, because I could see the stars come out in the sky from my vantage point. They sprinkled past the fire.
“I write the stories of the world,” said the voice. “If I ever write the endings, the the world will end.”
“You have got to be kidding,” I said. “No one has that much power.”
“Here,” said the voice. “I’ll show you.”
A young man in a dark hooded cloak walked into the light. His face was distorted like a TV without a clear channel. He took his quill and wrote the words “the end.”
A huge light appeared in the distance as I saw the sun explode. “Stop it, stop it.” I yelled.
The young man waved his hand “It’s too late.”
I swear, I watched him disappear as the blackness roiled over me.