His Perfect Woman - A 24 Hour Short Story Entry

It would be his seventh flight this year. He didn’t have friends or family, pets or plants, anything that might tie him down. So when he got the call, he could just get on the next plane.

He barely scratched by, making a living drawing, illustrating, writing, however he could. He spent most of his life tucked away in his dingy flat. He kept the blinds shut, in the timeless room that was his office, kitchen and bedroom. Slave to the pen, but not to the clock. He poured every penny he made into his project, his lifelong endeavour.

He had been drawing her since he was a teenager. Her every detail, the curved rise and fall of her ample chest and cinched waist. The tumble and flick of her long hair, her slender legs, perfectly formed. He had notebooks filled with her naked image, had drawn her in every conceivable position. She had started as an online comic strip, the heroine who never needed rescuing. Strapping her sword and bow on her back, she ventured into the dark lands, fearlessly facing monsters and Minotaurs in battle. She conquered her way across his fictional continent. The comic series ran out eventually, but he couldn't part with her. He found every excuse he could to draw her. His perfect woman.

The awkward exchanges of real life would never compare to her tender regard. He always imagined her finding her way to this reality, walking off the page into his arms. He dreamed of her every night, his bedroom walls plastered with her face. Her loving eyes watching over him. He would give anything to be with her.

It was a week after his twenty birthday when he first heard of it. The cursed pen.

He had been sat in the restaurant near his flat. Facing the corner, absorbed in his plain noodles and latest sketch, when a hand fell heavy on his shoulder, jolting him back to the moment. The stranger behind him had placed a manilla folder on the table, and without a word, walked away. To begin with, he didn't even glance at it. He was not exactly famous, not in his own right, but he submitted a lot of work to a big studio, and some of it got used. He had people approach him now and then, looking for an in, someone to pass their work on to the real greats. He had assumed it was that, a collection of poor sketches, vague ideas, not even worth the paper wasted on them. He leisurely finished his noodles before opening the file. The inner cover had three words scrawled inside, in thick, blobby handwriting. The Cursed Pen. Tucked into the flap on the other side, he found a selection of faded newspaper clippings. The most recent one had only been a week ago then, but they went back decades.

A well known horror writer had been found dead, impaled in the perfect recreation of his most recent, still unpublished work. The famous poet, who wrote odes and dedications to his fictional ship, last seen boarding an unregistered vessel at the harbour. The first lady of romance, swept off her feet by a foreign price, whisked away never to be seen again. The crime connoisseur, whos body parts were discovered in jail cells across the world. The were nearly 40 seemingly unconnected newspaper clippings from all over the world. Authors last seen in circumstances that related to their work.

He hadn't really known what to make of it. Until he got home.

He spent the rest of that night reading about the articles, trying to find some reference to the cursed pen. It was the start of his second greatest obsession. The pen that gave life.

He had registered with every antique dealer, every auction house and museum he could. He followed up on every lead, boarding the next plane to wherever a trace of the pen had turned up. He had claimed it was a long lost heirloom, something his great granddad had talked about before he passed away. They had been enthusiastic at first, eyes sparkling as they told him about the beautiful pen they had recently acquired. After years of 'wrong' pens, they seemed less obliging. He always had one question.

“Has anyone used it?”

Most of the time, they had, sketching a quick few lines, jotting down some notes, just to see if it worked. He had received another of those calls yesterday,

“Yes, we have tested it, and it still writes" came the usual reply, with an added sigh.

“What did you write with it?” he always asked, just in case.

“I don't know sir, it wasn't me that tested it" came the someone curt reply.

He hated to insist, to impose, but he always did. The member of staff had put him on hold while he went to check.

“One of the auction house girls drew a love heart"

---

The next day he had seen the news, ‘Girl found dead at auction house, shot in the heart with an arrow’.

He booked a ticket for the next flight over there. He had enough air miles already this year not to have to pay for it. He didn't need to pack. He only needed his wallet, the one card that held all his savings. The face of his beloved was engraved in his mind. He could draw her, perfectly, anywhere, with anything, and he wouldn't need to bring a pen this time... He was so excited, he couldn't even try and eat, so skipping breakfast, he rushed straight to the airport.

He sat on the economy flight, jammed against the window as rowdy tourists in the next seats slammed down shots. He had dreamt of this for so long. Bringing her to life, being able to touch her, to hold her, to kiss her supple lips. He knew exactly what he would draw her wearing, how she would be stood, poised, ready to climb off the pages into his arms.

He thought about it the whole flight over. The auction house would be closed to the public by now, cops crawling all over the place. He would find a way in. He had to, so he would. Nothing would stop him now. The flight seemed the longest of his life. The normal irritation of other passengers, even the most rowdy, faded into the background in the face of such a momentous day. Before the sun set on this day, she would be real, brought to life, his perfect woman.

He couldn't stop thinking about her. Her character had been building for years. She was strong, and easy going. Brave in adversity, tender in compassion. An amazing swords-woman, a dead shot, she lived life to the fullest. She seized every moment, went on every adventure. She lived life for the experience, and found a way to enjoy even the worst of it. Her ready smile filled his heart to bursting, her voluptuous figure undid his very core. She was beyond stunning, her big blue eyes framed with thick black lashes looked up at him with adoration from every page. She had always been real to him, and now, finally he would be real to her. He had loved her for so long. She could finally love him back.

She would love him back, wouldn't she…

He began to picture his life with her. Her graceful, slender arms draped around his hunched form. Her dainty mouth kissing the uneven skin of his cheek. He had imagined it, wished for it many times. He had spent hours envisioning time with her. The simple moments, curled up on a sofa, his head on her lap as she stroked his hair. Cooking dinner with her, laughing as he wrapped his arms around her waist while she stirred a simmering pot. Waking up to her still asleep, her full bosom rippling with each inhalation, her shining eyes fluttering open as he lent over and woke her with a kiss. He had spent most of his life contemplating the moments he longer to share with her.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the flash and ping of the seat belt warning. The plane was coming into land. His heart was racing, the bubble of excitement that had been growing since he saw the news that morning was beginning to turn to sour nerves.

There was so much he wanted to share with her, would she want any of it? He had loved her for years, but he would be a complete stranger to her. She would have no idea who he was. He tried to picture himself through her eyes. He was shorter than most men, his thick eyebrows knitted together under his heavy set brow. His small eyes sunken, lined from squinting at a screen, shadowed with years of poor lifestyle choices. His thin lips, his uneven skin, a constant reminder of years of acne as a teenage. His patchy stubble, he hadn't even thought to shave, he had been in such a hurry to leave. His flabby figure seemed detestable when he tried to see himself as she would. Years of takeaways and restaurant meals had accumulated around his waist.

He felt sick as the plane bumped down, rolling onto the runway. She could never love him. She was beyond perfect, and he, he was this. She could never love this.

Despite the cold nauseating feeling spreading through his insides, he couldn't walk away. He had waited so long, come all this way. He couldn't go home without the pen. Even if he never drew her with it, even if she never came to life and looked at him with that tender smile. He had to at least have the pen.

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This is my entry to the 24 hour short story contest by @mctiller - the challenge is to write a story in 24 hours based on the idea 'A comic book writer's creation comes to life' - you can check out all the entries under the tag #twentyfourhourshortstory

Photo Credit by pixabay user DeeDee51