The Monk of Eden

I was speechless.

I couldn't remember how long I and the artists beside me sat there at our collection of cubicles. For six years I've worked at this company and now their just kicking us out.

When the boss called for our attention this morning we expected normal news, something cheerful. Instead he declared that all 97 artists who've been working with me as long as I have, if not longer, are sacked. Fired. We won't be getting paid this week, and we have less than two hours to pack our belongings and "Get the fuck out." as the 'new boss' casually stated.

By the time I snapped out of my daze, three of the artists of our group have already left and the three others were either weeping at their desks or already packing with a sad look on their faces.

I should have said something, I told myself. I should punch that prick in the face right now. But all I did was pick up a box and pack my things. My pens, my pencils, my notebooks, my papers, all of it. I couldn't even look my co-workers in the eye and vice-versa.

It wasn't until closed the trunk of my car until my knees buckled and I collapsed against my car in tears. I wasn't concerned about my livelihood or bills to pay. This was my life. It wasn't great, it wasn't flashy but it was mine. I helped make stories for those kids who sat at the back of the class, who no one ever wanted to sit with at lunch time, who couldn't talk to another person or didn't want to. I wanted to make something for the outcasts in the world and now . . . now I can't.

All I could do for the present was to go home. I got into my car and decided to listen to my Final Fantasy playlist on the way home.

The drive was long, as it always was. I would wake up hours early and drive all the miles necessary to work. The work was its own reward and the miles traveled never mattered to me.

My apartment wasn't much to look at, I prioritized practicality over comfort so it was one of those apartments where the kitchen and the bedroom are the same thing and the only other room is the bathroom. Its basically the real estate version of canckles. I had a small bed and a drawing desk right next to it with a box of art books and novels. A poor man's work studio.

I didn't bother putting away the stuff in my box and just dropped on the welcome mat and headed straight to my bed. I plopped on to the so hard I thought I might wake the downstairs neighbor but thankfully their was only silence.

As I laid I looked to my desk and noticed one of my notebooks just sitting there. It wasn't my only notebook just the most recent I've begun writing and drawing in. I've had countless notebooks, even before I began working in comics I filled them with ideas, drawings or planned out whole story arcs. I wasn't so much a hobby as it was a way of life for me. I wrote down whatever I wanted knowing no one was going to read it but me.

Just then I decided to continue that way of life. I got out of bed and grabbed a number 2 pencil, grabbed the note book and began drawing whatever came to mind. And the first thing I thought of was a samurai. I always liked the culture of ancient japan. Stories about Samurai, ninja, martial arts master that defy human capabilities. But I don't know what possessed me when I began drawing her waist. I then decided to go all out. I drew a tall, voluptuous women with thick braided hair and a true hourglass figure. For clothing I went risqué and made a black top that exposed a certain amount of her breasts, an exposed, toned navel, and an elongated black loincloth with thigh high boots to go with it.

And of course any samurai needs a sword so I made the most epic kind imaginable. The handle is a bright red and the hilt is in the shape of a raging fire and the blade itself is bright orange. And to top it off, the straw-woven hat you see in the movies, "Kasa hat" I think they're called.

I brainstormed a name for this female samurai and immediately went for the most epic. I wrote in the margin.

"Hunter of the Sun, Fukushima"

I couldn't help but giggle at the nerdy fuck I was. It was the first time I laughed since I left my cubicle, and I wanted to keep it up and write a whole profile for her.

"The sadistic and beautiful Fukushima has spent her whole life to become a master swords woman, to dominate her opponents in more ways than one. The power, the fury of the sun itself lives and burns inside her. She delights in conquering evil-doers and villains and to them in the most sadistic ways."

I planned to stop write there but then that feeling came again and I continued writing.

"But what gives her more pleasure than anything is to be conquered herself. And that is privilege reserved for the only one who has ever defeated her in battle, The Monk of Eden, Muzashi."

I had no clue where that came from but for some reason I was glad I put it there. Looking at the clock, my jaw dropped at the time. It was midnight. I completely lost my track of time, but then I realized I didn't have a job anymore and that brought me down from my high. Tomorrow I would have to begin job hunting . . . again, regardless about how I feel, I still have bills to pay.

This is kind of the story of my life. No matter how epic my stories get (or how raunchy) I can't avoid the inescapable pull to reality. Because reality is real, though I wish it wasn't. I wanted to be the people I created, I wanted to be Muzashi.

I closed my notebook and hopped back in bed and pulled up the covers. Closed my eyes, and went to sleep.

...................................................

Despite the day before I woke up to clear blue sky, not groggy at all. I did one of those stretches that always feels so good when you wake up, but then felt something brush against my arm. Cracking my eyes I saw someone in beside me, with long, thick black hair braided. Whoever it was raised their head and thought I was going to lose my mind when I saw her face. It was like it was pulled straight from the page I drew it on.

"Good morning, Lord Muzashi." she soothingly said.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!?"