Word Count: 1030
Writing: 1 hour
Editing: 20 minutes
Total Time: 1 hour 20 minutes
Dear Readers, Fans, and whomever this letter may concern,
I imagine this will be my last published work and with each newly written word, I speak to you from a little further in the past. No matter, I suppose there never really was any other way my story should end. I don’t know if I could’ve written it better myself, or maybe I wrote the entire thing. It’s hard to decipher between fact and fiction after these long two hundred twenty-six years.
The memories of when it all started barely echo in my mind, but I can still see the young man I once was if I look hard enough. Full of life and energy, and fear. It makes me chuckle now, the fear of death. I wrote about agelessness in many of my “science fiction” stories; wrote about the future where robots had taken over and man had colonized the solar system. It wasn’t long before—with a lot of luck—I found a little fame with such novels. Quickly my fame grew and in the next ten years the things I was writing about began to become a reality.
May tenth, 2025. That’s when the first human had the aging process halted successfully. My mind raced with ideas, a billion a minute about this new journey humanity was about to embark on. And thus began what I’ve always liked to call my, Rabble Rouser, era.
Society changed so quickly back then. I remember, it felt as if I blinked and reality turned into a fairy tale. Anti-aging was optional, if you wanted to live a natural human life and die a natural human death, you were more than welcome too. But of course, who wants to die? I asked the question often and wrote many works about possible futures with dystopian scenarios. The government banned a couple of my novels under the pretense they were instilling panic among the citizens. It was always so amusing to me, that these stories I simply imagined and made up, affected so many people.
I was thirty-eight when they halted my age, and my career was on the up and up. The feeling when they give you the injections and pills after you’ve been alive almost four decades—you’re lucky it’s done upon birth now, trust me—made me feel like Louie as his human body dies. A character from Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire, a hot novel when I was young, a classic to most of you reading this letter. If I make one last recommendation to you, go find this book and read every word.
After my time as a rabble rouser life seemed to move even more quickly. There aren’t many people left on Earth as old as me, at least according to the most recent census. Most left once we colonized Mars, others after we extended our reach further out into the galaxy; but I could never leave. There’s something special about this planet, it has a unique life of its own. You can feel it in the beauty of nature any time you care to look.
Don’t forget that readers. I don’t know what lessons my life has to teach anyone, but at least let me say, take time to look at the world. Not just see the things that cover the Earth, I mean really look at the world. Look at the blades of grass as they dance silently in the invisible breeze. Or the veins in the leaf of a tree and how they naturally create a painting that can never be replicated.
The more time that passed the faster it seemed to go and the more writing I did. As long as you kept reading, I kept writing (and thank you all for reading all this time). If you would have told me when I was just a boy that I would be one of the most renowned authors in the world(s) with a successful career spanning over two centuries, I would’ve laughed and playfully told you to “fuck off.” Yet, here I sit.
I want to say I don’t know why I’m writing this letter to you, but of course I do. It’s to apologize. I’ve lost it you see, whatever that spark was that brought me all of those five-hundred plus stories has finally been extinguished. In fifty years I’ve not been able to put more than a paragraph on a page, in fact, this letter is the longest piece I’ve written in all that time. So I am sorry. Sorry to you my readers and fans, for there will be no more stories.
I don’t think it’s possible for me to live with the knowledge that I can’t write anymore, that it’s gone from me forever. I know many people would tell me it’s just a bit of writer’s block and can be expected after a two-hundred-year career, but this is different. I can’t explain to you why, it’s something that I know in my heart and my head. Something that tells me I have said all I can, that there are no more tales to spin. Perhaps I’m just tired, maybe I’ve fried all the creativity in my brain, whatever the reason, I’m happy to leave this world. I don’t believe in a heaven or an afterlife so unfortunately I won’t be able to say, see you later.
If you should so need me though, you know where to look. Any time any of you care for an adventure or need somewhere to escape to, visit me right between the covers of my books. I suppose that was why I started writing them after all, I wanted to “live forever.” I always said after I died my writing would keep me alive in the mind and heart of everyone who dared take those adventures with me. The only problem is I haven’t died just yet.
Life is beautiful my friend’s. I’ve lived many great years because of each and every one of your love for my stories. So, in closing, I suppose the only thing left to say is; thank you all for reading.