Here's Where the Story Ends

The apartment was just as I remembered it. An expansive living room that looked out upon a lush green landscape. A desirable living space, and yet empty and neglected, as if its owner was a bachelor who was wrapped up in other things, aside from domestic bliss. But the cat was there, and she looked at me impatiently; affectionate and yet exasperated - maybe because of something I had or hadn't done? Perhaps she had a point. I still missed her.

There was a knock at the door. "Wait there," I told the cat and went to answer.

At the door there stood a tall man in a dark suit. He wore sunglasses and an expression of severity on his craggy features. "May I come in?" he asked me.

"I don't know," I replied nervously, "are you one of the Men in Black?"

"No. But you would, I'm sorry to say, consider me to be something worse," he said, "I am in fact from the Ministry of Creativity."

"The Ministry of what?!"

"Creativity," The Man repeated patiently, "May I come in?" he asked me again. Though still in a state of confusion I stepped back and opened the door wider; The Man in the black suit swept in carrying a brief case.

We took a seat at a large round, glass table in the middle of my living room. It was the kind of table I would have liked to have in my living room but never did. As I sat down, I saw that an object was lying on the table in front of me: it was a wristband that was made from brown, smooth, strung together beads. I remembered it had been given to me as a parting gift at a rock festival, but I had lost it long ago. I picked it up and turned it over in my hand, and something occurred to me: "I'm dreaming."

"Yes you are", confirmed The Man from the ministry as he took the opposite seat to my own, "this is where we make our client calls. In dreams."

"And what is the purpose of this call?" I asked him.

In response The Man put the brief case that he had been carrying on the table in front of me.  The two catches that served as the release mechanism sprang open, and from the case he passed me a document. "Here you are," he told me, "this is the next story that you are going to write."

"Oh right," I said as he handed me the article, "and why is it being delivered to me like this? I can't remember having any calls from the Ministry of Creativity before."

The agent regarded me expressionlessly through his dark glasses. "That's because this story will be the last story that you will ever write. There will be no more. Your creative licence has expired."

I gazed back at him blankly. "My creative licence? Has expired?!" I said in confusion.

The Man took this opportunity to explain. "Every living being is born with a certain consignment of creativity. You may use this creativity in different ways: writing stories, formulating theories, painting pictures, designing machines and so forth. But when its gone its gone I'm afraid. Also, in these times of austerity, we've had to make cuts to existing consignments. Therefore the remaining creativity in your consignment has been reallocated to a more high achieving recipient."

I looked at the file in front of me, feeling an ache within as I listened to these words, as if something was being torn from my soul. "No more stories?" I asked.

"I'm afraid not."

"What about poems?"

"No, none of those either. Or lyrics. Or music. Or jokes."

I scratched my head, trying to take in the enormity of what he was saying. "no more drawings?"

He had to think about this one for a moment. "Doodles should be OK," he decided, "but you'll have to stick to the tried and tested ones. Like the cubes and the aeroplanes you like to draw."

"What about random little tunes popping up inside my head?" I asked

"Sorry."

"And what about problem solving?"

"You'll have to get advice," answered The Man from the ministry, "That shouldn't trouble you too much - you have to get advice on plenty of stuff from day to day as it is. Now you'll just have to do it a bit more."

I sat there for a bit longer, still stunned and still struggling to comprehend. An empty life was stretching out in front of me. "Are you alright?" The Man from the ministry asked in a perfunctory tone.

"I... " it seemed difficult to articulate myself in this harsh unreality, in this dream that was not a dream. "But what about all the stories I will never write?" I managed to ask, "What if someone saw them and was inspired? Even one person? How... how do you know?..."

"The answer is we don't," the government representative admitted, "I mean, what if we make cuts to healthcare and someone dies because of it? We might have cut healthcare to fund the building of weapons, and then many people would die. That is the responsibility of government. And life is cruel."

I nodded mechanically, feeling crushed and resigned, and considered the document that had been presented to me. "Is it a good story?" I asked.

At this the The Man's expression softened somewhat. "I believe you will be pleased with the idea when writing it," he told me, "but in the future such things will be not be easy to judge, as you will find the story difficult to revisit; after all, it is your last one."

I nodded and looked down at the document again. "Here's where the story ends..." I mused.

"Hmm," said The Man, "that's a reference to a song isn't it? Very appropriate. That's what you should call it. You like doing that kind of thing."

I shrugged, but as I looked the words "Here's Where the Story Ends" formed on the cover of the document.

"Well, that's settled then," said The Man from the Ministry, "And now I must leave." He stood up.

I looked up at him, one last question lingering in my mind. "Is there a Ministry of Silly Walks?"

The only reply I got was an echoing beat, as of approaching thunder. The drumbeat became louder and louder, until it filled my mind, and I found myself becoming conscious. I opened my eyes and saw that I was surrounded by darkness. Beyond the windows of my room a car was driving down the street, its sound system booming out a rhythm so loud that any music that may have accompanied it was obscured. The beat became yet louder before eventually beginning to retreat, its thunderous emanations further distorted by the Doppler effect. I rose from my bed, crossing the room to the window.

I had been dreaming, but whatever I had experienced in my unconscious mind was now fading like the last rays of an Autumn sunset. But the picture of my cat by the window reminded me that she'd been there. I was glad of this, however I got the impression my nocturnal experience had not been a happy one.

Happiness, I reflected: in an existence of pain, grief and monotony, what was it but a string of moments scattered haphazardly across a lifetime?

Just imagine, I speculated further, if there was a drug that could collect together those moments and give you one intense high...

Now that's a good idea for a story...