The Creative Process Is a Distant God

Oden lives in a box. All white, flat, smooth walls and no windows. A constant dripping sound though there is no place for water. There is a desk and chair and on the desk there is an open notebook. The pen beside it is fine point; green ink. Oden is a writer. So Oden writes and nothing else. Oden has never been outside the box nor desired to leave; never needed to replace the pen.

As the paper shows willingness to the pen and its purpose of bleeding out in curvy but crisp lines, a man with an emotionless face begins to materialize. His edges truss crisp and green in the unnatural light. Oden is not afraid and so does not turn around.

The man speaks. “You weren't supposed to be here.”

To which Oden responds, “Ah, but I am,” and pauses for a moment. “Blue moon tonight, you better watch out.”

The man was not paying attention. He was too concerned with his hands, turning them over in confusion like they weren’t his. As if maybe he had traded them. Incoherently mumbling to himself, “My... but how- but, my... name? Name name name...”

His hands, despite his suspicion, are strong. He balls them into fists, feeling this shockingly cold buzzing burn back and forth from his knuckles to the back of his jaw. It was an unsettling thrill he didn’t know with what to do so he puts his hands down, presses his palms against the sides of his thighs, and keeps them there. “My... name. Is... my name. Is. ... Azul.” He does not care to ask what Oden meant.

The distant pitter-patter abruptly stops. Oden closes his journal and as he does it becomes a beautiful Egyptian blue box. Carefully, Oden gets up and offers it to Azul, who takes a long look at it before reaching out.

“No.” Oden’s voice is flat. “Open it.”

Azul does as told and he takes out a pen. Without thinking, he breaks it. The satisfaction of the stiff snap was, again, unsettling and so he lazily drops the pieces. The dripping noise returns. Straight faced and unsure of how yet to shape his features into something that would properly represent how he feels, he puts his hand down. Palms pressed to thighs again. He looks Oden in the eyes, which are this opaque violet and crossed.

“What do you want for me?”

Oden takes the box to the desk, opening it back into a book and whilst scribbling something in it, in the same flat voice, says, “I want for you to live. And suffer.”

“Why?”

Oden writes on un-bothered.

“Answer me.”

Oden writes.

“Fine. Life isn’t fair, right? Something about that sounds familiar... you can ignore me for now. I think I understand and I won’t forget.”

“Good.”

Azul throws his head back, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. He exhales in a chopped up chuckle that seemed to come from the floor of his stomach and sneers—to which he thinks to himself, yes, this feels right. “I won’t be here long but I’ll be back for you, won’t I?”

“Yes.”

Azul laughs a hardy, dark laugh. “Will you miss me while gone?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Azul nods. “Then I won’t say goodbye... no, no that won’t do.” He lifts his left foot to approach Oden but thinks better of it when he notices the sudden silence, then continues. “So long, my friend.”

After pressing a period into the page, the man disintegrates and is gone.

Oden writes on un-bothered.