Genesis 2 by Esther Arthurson

The first of his characters to come to life was Nelly. She was a pretty but headstrong girl from the Victorian era, and she wouldn’t listen when he told her she was imaginary. She would turn her huge, insolent eyes on him, as if to say: Really? Then what am I doing in your kitchen? She had him there.

The second creation to step off the page and into his medium-rent-band bungalow was a musician called Lars who had lived on the street since he was fourteen and was desperate for his father to understand him. The three of them rubbed along nicely, despite Nelly’s propensity for petty theft. They stayed that way for a couple of weeks, the father and his prodigal (or fictional) children. They’d talk until dawn, the storyteller adopting the role of audience, placing his guests in hypothetical scenarios, each of their answers scribbled onto his disjointed manuscript. He had never worked so hard, so furiously, at anything in his life.

In the beginning he left to buy food. But time seemed suddenly precious in a way it hadn’t since his wife left, and he would rush home, his heart a gong in his throat in case his companions had stepped back into the notes from which they came. He cancelled social engagements, signings and meetings with his editor; everything else could wait. They were in a world of their own, in which He was the Creator and His word was the only Word.

They were joined by Carla, a Spanish dancer, and Joe Sprig, whose accent sounded as corny in reality as it had looked on paper. Every few days another one appeared, and the house was getting crowded. Chrissy, the youngest, an orphan, cried hysterically whenever He approached the door, scratching at her face until it bled. It killed Him when she did that, so He took to staying in. His drab little dwelling had transformed into a carnival of explosive colour and beautiful lunacy in three weeks. What did they have out there that He could not write into being in here? His editor must have been fuming, but she’d understand when she saw what He was working on. Meanwhile, He had disconnected the landline. He wouldn’t want anyone to disturb them.

The fridge was empty, the electricity cut. Winter was approaching, its ravenous jaws bearing down on the little house with radiators like stone. But never mind that; they would be a hibernating hive of postponed creativity and stories in the making. He would finish His novel in the Spring, and yes, He assured them, they would all be in it.

In the meantime, amidst a rare moment of lucidity, He scribbled His own obituary down on the back of a receipt and left it under the silent, useless phone.

Someone finds him, alone, in the Spring. His obituary is published; His novel never is.

Esther Arthurson is a Theology student in her final year at Cambridge University who, one day, hopes to verbally vomit for a living.

Twitter:@AlwaysWriteAbo1

Instagram: estherhopearthurson

Illustration by Hannah Castle

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