The Illustrator

His hand was starting to cramp.  He had been drawing all night.  He loved being an Illustrator, but the long nights wore on him and his creativity drew thin for the night.  He had been given a large piece of circular poster board and told to draw as many different characters as he could.  He was filling one of the only remaining empty spaces when the cramp in his hand shot a painful twitch down his fingers.  The character was now disfigured.  He breathed a distressed sigh and pulled out his eraser, but when he brought it down to the board-

“Hey!”

He jumped, almost flinging his eraser across the room.  He collected himself and began his assessment.  He surveyed the room for the source of the interjection, but did not find it until-

“Down here!” said the character he had just been drawing.

The illustrator gave his head a gently shake and wiped his eyes.  It had been a long day at work.  Hallucinating just meant it was time for bed.

“Don’t erase me!”

The Illustrator leaned down closer to the drawn figure.  “But you are misshapen.  Your body has become twisted.  It has encircled and consumed all of you.  I must erase you so I can draw a new person.”  The Illustrator paused after saying ‘person’.  It was such a sentient, even human, term to describe such an entity.  The strangeness of the word did not surprise him, but rather his comfortableness with using it.  He loved illustrating and therefore he loved his creations.

“I am OK with my abnormalities if it means I can stay,” said the caricature.

The Illustrator paused and humbly considered this predicament.  Despite almighty position in this circumstance, he felt pity.  He pondered a resolution that would satisfy his love and his creation’s fear.

“How about this: I erase you now so I can make room for a new character, but I promise to redraw you, this time flawless.  I will frame you and hang you on my wall.”

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