The God of His World

Disclaimer: This short story is not to strike down people's beliefs or ideas, and is in no way a strike against them. It is simply a representation of the inner struggles a young boy is facing. Thank you.

Night air swayed into the open door, through the house, and whispered softly to its inhabitants. The boy had listened, but took little interest; shivering slightly was his only reaction. He sat silently at the desk in his room and diligently wrote.

Time seemed to have stood still to the boy, as his dark blue eyes focused on the paper before him and carefully brought the scene to life with his words. He brushed his brown hair to the left side of his face to clear his vision. He continued with his work, the fate of his very own universe at his fingertips.

Tap…tap…tap. The god of that world lightly tapped his hand, following to rhythmic beat of the imaginary scene. With the flick of his hand and the skid of the pencil tip, the fate of the battle was sealed.

The cadence beat would neither stop nor slow as ten thousand of the finest men of the Northern Skyland Region and twelve thousand of the most brutal men of the Westward Desert Region intertwined in mortal combat. Their swords crashed together; sparks were born from various collisions. Within his world, a shower of red and black rained onto the battlefield the rhythm of the war drums guided the armies’ actions.

What reasons did the two have for this blood bath? The people of the Westward Desert Region had very little farm land, while those of the Northern Skyland had the best of the known world. What man could resist such a fertile ground?

Those of the Northern Skyland, however, took this action of desperation as hostile. Unwilling to believe the Westward Desert peoples’ reasons, they assumed the worst; the Temple of their gods dwelled in the very heart of their region. They believed that the invaders had come to claim the Temple and pervert it with their own evil possesions. They feared that if any miscreant soul were to so much as dare enter the Temple, the gods would surely punish the Northern Skyland people for allowing such a thing.

The god outside the war smiled slightly as he admired his creation. The people of the Westward Desert Region were strong, powerful and strove to do what was best for their people; everything he wished he could be. He gave them mighty weapons and unbelievable strength and stamina.

The Northern Skyland people were secluded, intelligent, fearful, and paranoid; everything the boy was. He saw them as a mere shadow of himself laid out onto paper. He gave these people adaptability, armor, and effective battle strategies.

Tap, tap, tap-a-tap-tap…lives were claimed one by one, man after man…gone. The boy continued tapping his hand to the rhythm of the war drums as he formed the scene. The archers of the north prepared their bows, ready to take out the first line of the western defenses.

Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap-a-tap…those of the Westward Desert drew their swords and wooden shields as they yelled and chanted battle cries. The end was near, and they could all feel it. They ran forward and screamed to the top of their lungs while some silently prayed.

Tap, tap, tap-a-tap, tap-a-tap, tap…the god of the world continued writing, creating, and tapping his hand faster and faster. The tempo quickening as the night air’s wind whispering more and more, louder and louder. The boy’s thoughts of war formed into flowing words.

Tap-tap, tap-a-tap, tap…Quickening ever more, the finale of the battle was drawing near. One more chance, one more swing of the sword, one last draw of the bow, one final breath. His hand was tapping, pencil creating, all to the rhythm of the war drums.

Man after man came at one another. Their blades became dirty, shields cracking, and sparks were born. Man after man fell and their blood spilled out like paint upon the ground. The Northern archers lit the tips of each arrow ablaze and readied them. Just as they drew the bow…

“Son, lights out,” The lad immediately dropped his pencil; the rhythm was lost. He turned his head slowly and stared at the man in the doorway.

The boy’s father smiled. “It’s time for bed. Lights out,” he repeated.

The boy sighed and stood up and slumped on to bed. His rested a finger on the light switch, ready to press downward. “Night Dad,” the boy said wearily.

“Night, Son,” his father replied as he closed the door. As the child lay motionless in his bed, couldn’t help but think about his story and the war. He couldn’t help but ponder who deserved to win more.