The Last Story

There were a thousand candles burning when you’d started. A single wick stood unlit amidst them.

One candle for each story you’ll write, she said. And one flame for each night you’ll live.

What happens to the last candle? you’d asked, pointing to the unlit wick.

A life for a light, she’d said coyly, and then disappeared.

You never thought much of this at first.

When the night fell and the stars rose, shadows dancing on cold stone, you’d dip your pen into the inky darkness of midnight and bleed.

And when the stars tumbled down at the rise of a new day, streaking the skies in strange shades of pink and violet, the story you’ve told would cease to cling to the page.

It’d scatter into the air, invisible wisps of pure magic that’d gallantly drift off your desk, out the windows, into the world.

The story you'd bled would no longer be yours.

You’d feel as though you’ve ripped off a limb, every time; strange, how you can never remember pain, each day bringing a raw, fresh agony.

Part of you would want to leap up and haul your words back in, clasp it close to your heart, into your thoughts again, where it was safe, from criticism and reproval, but you’d know that it was futile.

A story once written belongs to the world, and to the world alone.

Left staring at the empty room with an undeniable longing, a sadness mingled with a quiet resignment, there’d be nothing you can do but dip your pen into the night and start, yet again.

...

Those first few years, you were happy, even as the words faltered, the flames flickered, as your pages were dotted with blots of ink, torn angrily at the edges.

With a pen in your hand and a story in your heart, you were happy, but come the break of dawn, with the last song of the nightingale; the wax would have melted into a tiny puddle above which a flame flickered. Flikcer, flicker, and then out.

A flame for a night. A candle to write.

And there were other hurdles that chose to reveal themselves, as the candles vanished into pools of wax at the caress of sunlight.

You'd looked into the mirror one day, and saw yourself fading, fading, into the light.

Your shadow had seemed pale, as if it were muted. It was when a tear fell from your cheek and vanished before it touched the stone floor, that’s when you knew, for certain.

As your stories came alive, you were dying.

Your time was running out, grains of sand slipping smoothly into the hourglass, faster, faster, falling through your fingers as you grasped at it, desperately.

Your time was running out and for a candle to burn, you needed a flame. The candle that stood unlit would never blaze. What would happen to the story it held?

In the brightness of the days, left alone with your thoughts, no story to distract you, you could never forget, never dream of anything else other than the words that wouldn’t be written, the tale that would never be heard.

The fear, it was paralyzing.

You’d watch as a thousand streams of silver weaved their way into the shadows, burning, searing. Flecks of dust rising into the air, forming their own patterns as they drifted aimlessly upwards, like tendrils of smoke. The light reflecting off glass panes to form a thousand rainbows, each one lapping over the next.

And all you could think was: Who would tell the last story after you were gone?

Wisps of shadows danced with the swirls of light as they retreated into the edges of the room. In the corner of your eye, another candle slumped, wax dripping onto cold stone, and then vanished.

Sometimes, your arm outstretched, you’d try to capture the heat of the day in the cup of your hands. Perhaps, you thought, naively, you could light the candle yourself, buy yourself the last story, just one more night to tell it.

You never could though, no matter how tightly you’d clasp the heat within your palm. It’d burn, burn and then drift out from between your fingers, to join the fires that raged around it, darting defiantly around the unlit wick.

A life for a light, she whispered, only a life for a light.

You wanted to scream.

...

There were a thousand candles burning when you’d started. Now, there are only two.

Two candles. One flame. Two stories left. But only one more night to live.

When you peer into the mirror, you cannot see your reflection anymore, and your shadow seems to have blended into the stone floor.

If you wander more than a few feet away from the fire, an excruciating pain courses through you, leaving you heaving, gasping for breath.

The last stars rise as the last night falls, and you write, of course.

You write the last story you will ever tell, your hand trembling as it slides across the page, a tear splotching as it falls above the page, never quite touching it.

You write because the pen is in your hand, and it is the only thing you can hold.

You write because a spark of a tale is in your heart, and it is the only thing you feel.

You write because it is all you know to do.

The nightingale croons its last song, and the single flame flickers above the pool of wax, your life along with it.

You close your eyes and expect- well, you do not know what to expect- but that is not what scares you.

It is the thought of the one tale left untold, the desolate candle that will never burn.

The flame flickers once, twice, and then goes out. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying not to feel, not to think, to just let it happen.

A minute passes, maybe two.

Your lashes flutter open with the wariness of a cripple attempting to move his limbs for the very first time.

The last flame is gone. But the unlit candle is burning. It is unearthly, this fire, ethereal in its beauty.

A life for a light, she’d said.

You are still here.

Here, you think, but not quite here.

You are everywhere at once, in the voices of a million storytellers, in the words of a billion books, in the minds of countless readers, here and everywhere.

It is then, that you realize.

The last story is You.

Photo by Mike Labrum on Unsplash