I can tell you something that I'm sure of: a person's mind is crowded. A person's mind is complicated; so many things to take care of, to think about, to need or want. Sometimes we think of smart ideas that rarely get used, and other times we have stupid ideas that get used surprisingly often.
Finally, there's the Creator's kind of mind. He's an animator, and he's the one who brings us, his ideas, to life. He's the one who makes fantasy real; the one who lets us escape into other dimensions; the one who breathes life into his inventions. Whether it's drawing, writing, or just his thoughts running wild in his head, the Creator made us: the section of his mind known as imagination.
From adventures with fire-breathing dragons, worlds with strange people and talking backpacks, to people and places that should never exist— all of these ideas can be seen right there on your television or in your books, thanks to the man who made all of us.
Our Creator is constantly working. He creates day and night, letting the ideas flow out of his head like a never-ending river. From pencil and paper to digital pens, our Creator's brain manifests over the place. This is where the journey begins.
I was at the back of his head trying to get to the front. I was a thought. Just a mere thought. All ideas want to get drawn. It's our goal, our greatest wish. And just like any other idea, I wanted to get out. After I had been elbowed, shoved aside, and slapped in the face a good number of times I made it to the front. I was acknowledged as good enough to be created. I was a clear vision; right down to the little details.
I was drawn. I remember my Creator perfectly. I remember hearing him, and looking out beyond the paper to see his face. His voice was my first memory: him talking about any possible alterations, anything else that could be done to make me as good as I could be. He finally erased the light pencil construction marks to reveal the final draft of me. The black ink almost shining on the paper.
He crossed his arms and smirked, proud and satisfied with his creation. He paused his music and walked out of the small office, allowing me to have a moment of self-inspection. He gave me bright yellow eyes and long, frizzy chestnut brown hair that cascaded all the way down to my barely-existing hips. Bangs almost covered my eyes, and long, dark red dragon wings hugged my back. A tail sprouts out of my lower back, complete with red skin and spikes going all the way along its length. I seemed to be around seventeen years old, but then again that might have been more imaginative thinking on my part. I was wearing a blue hoodie and a black skirt to accompany it. Thick black rain boots covered my feet. And just like that, I was a character, a character with a personality. I existed.
Above my illustration, there was a small little word written in flowy cursive letters: "Eim". That's what I've been calling myself since that day. Maybe he wasn't done writing my name, maybe it was just a temporary one, but I like to think that he made it special for me.
As soon as the lights turned off and the door clicked closed, the small office really came to life. The cartoons that came to life in our Creator's office created a completely different world. Digital animations talked to one another, drawings transferred from paper to paper. We talked, we laughed, we had fun. We lived. Computer screens flashed with people and creatures talking and exploring. Us little ideas ran around on our two dimensional surface, going as far as the edges of the paper would allow. No matter how hard we pushed on the sides, and no matter how much we were dying to explore the rest of the world, whatever the magic was, it would not let us go.
Change was a constant; people were always going places—One day you were set up to be on the next big T.V. show, and the next thing you knew you were cut, scrapped, thrown out. And as you can imagine, us ideas tend not to like that option. It was a possibility we couldn't explore on our own, a possibility that we had no information about. All we knew was that once you left you couldn't come back, and you couldn't communicate back. You were gone.
But as soon as the door lock jiggled we were back in place, as if nothing ever happened. The Creator would work again, making more new ideas, and once again, the cycle would repeat.
After weeks of me happily conversing with other cartoons on the Creator's desk he did something unnatural: he left the room early. Leaving the lights on and the room unlocked. The other cartoons and I were hesitant to move around. When he eventually came back he looked upset. His mouth fixed in a scowl and his eyebrows furrowed, he picked me up hastily and threw me in the trash. I tried to yell, shout out, scream, do anything. But I couldn't. My worst nightmare, the possibility of the unknown scared me. As I fell through the air I tried to flap my wings, but it was of no use, he was watching me so I couldn't move. He put me in the trash. But that was just the beginning of all the weirdness to come.
YOU ARE READING
Not a Graphic NovelFantasy
Not a Graphic Novel is a story about cartoons that have been abandoned by their creator and live in their own world in a trash can. The story takes place when their creator begins to take the abandoned ideas and change them, creating chaos in their...