The Power and Price of Imagination

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Tyler had always loved art right from childhood.

He stayed back drawing images of people while other boys played football on the field. He loved sitting under an almond tree where his thoughts prevailed, creating perfect drawings from his imaginations. He didn’t have to think much; it was just an innate talent.

“Tyler, you’ll get blind one day if you don’t get those eyeballs moving. They’re always glued to that notebook of yours,” his mom who stood at his back said.

“I’ll soon be done,” he replied, his gaze still glued onto the paper.

“Done yet?” she asked, her hands on her waist and her eyes staring keenly at him.

He then paused for a moment and moved his head backwards to get a better view of what he had drawn—a bird with an unusually long tail, one never seen or heard of.

“Something about this sketch feels absolutely right,” he whispered to himself.

“Yeah, it does,” his mum replied, tapping her foot on the floor. “And I’m still waiting.” she added tapping her foot on the floor

“Oh, sorry.” Tyler realized she had been waiting for him, so he stood up and they both went inside while discussing as they normally would.

That very same evening, as he was returning from the market, something flew right past his left ear.

“Jeez!” He quivered in shock and froze.

He looked up and saw a bird on a tree branch. Not just a bird, but the same bird he had sketched a few hours ago—the tail, the curved beak like that of an eagle, with the face of an owl.

“What the…” he muttered in surprise as he strode closer to see if it was real or if his mind was playing tricks on him.

Their eyes met, and Tyler’s heart skipped—not in amusement, but in fear. He never expected his work of art would someday become his greatest nightmare.

The bird chirped, flapped its wings, and scooted away, far from sight.

Days passed, and Tyler kept this to himself. Maybe it was a coincidence, he thought, but deep within he knew there was no such bird with the face of an owl, the beak of an eagle, and a tail as long as that of a peacock.

He soon thought to himself, what if I was a super kid with superpowers? So the next morning, he jolted from his bed, ran to the very same almond tree, and drew a picture of it. The wind began to gush, swindling the flexible branches around.

“Come on,” he complained, looking in the direction of the wind as though it could hear him.

“The wind won’t speak to you,” a deep, thunderous voice, like the rumble of many waters, spoke.

Tyler crouched and frantically scrambled backwards, thinking it was the wind.

“Who— are you?” he shakily asked, his voice trembling.

“I am your creation—your thoughts..." the voice halted allowing silence sip in.

"...your imagination.” it continued.

For a moment, Tyler felt a sudden ease. He stood to his feet, looked up into the trees, softly walked closer and curiously placed his ear on its bark, then spoke to it.

“So ..." he began. Are you saying you are—”

“My imaginations,” the tree completed as though it had already anticipated Tyler's question, "Yes. I am your imaginations,"

Image generated by Gemini AI

“How’s this possible?” Tyler asked, hoping for a response, but met silence.

“Are you still there?” he called out, but still no response except for the sound of thunder.

As he wondered it went silent, he looked close to the tree and realized the paper where he had sketched the almond tree was soaked in a small pool of stationary water after being carried away by the wind. He picked it up; the drawing wss completely messed up.

“Gosh,” he scoffed. "Wait" he whispered to himself as a sudden realization hit him. Imaginations live as long as the drawing lives

He got back inside as the wind was getting heavier and the clouds darkened.

He slept at night with thoughts grazing his mind. "So I can bring anything to life with this?" He was still in his thoughts when his eyes slowly fell asleep.

The next day, he woke up, stretched his hands, freshened up, and went out to the market—foodstuffs had finished, and he didn't want to get reminded by Mum to get it done.

He hummed as he walked through the busy crowd, his eyes scanning the area for a slot where rice was sold, when an old woman suddenly held his hand, her grip so strong he heard a "pop" in his bone.

“Let me go!” he struggled to break free.

“Listen, young man!” she shouted.

Tyler relaxed for a moment, and when she saw this, she loosened her grip.

“You possess a gift no man born of a woman should possess.” Her voice was rough, slow, and sore—like that of an ancient witch, the type he read about in novels.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Listen to me,” she aggressively pulled him closer. “It comes at a price, that gift of yours.”

“What price?”

“The voices. You hear them all, and like a virus, it’ll corrupt your peace, and it'll eat you from the inside”

Tyler looked at the ground. “The voices,” he repeated, trying to unbox the meaning of what she had said.

By the time he looked up, he saw a man standing—a stranger.

“Hey, are you okay? You’ve been talking to yourself.”

Tyler had a quick glance around, and everyone had their eyes on him. He threw on his hoodie, bowed his head, and walked away as fast as he could.

“Hey, are you sure you don’t need help, buddy?” the man raised his voice once more as Tyler disappeared into the distance.

He got home and reflected on the old woman’s voice all through the night. Every door creak, every bird chirp spooked him, afraid a strange creature might creep in on him—or perhaps the old woman was watching him. Who knows?

He snuck under his duvet, covered his ears, and waited for sunrise so he could get to school.

“Hey, wake up, you’ll be late for school,” his mother’s voice echoed through the room.

He poked his head through the duvet and took a deep breath of relief, happy he made it through the night. He then prepared for school, joined the bus, and eventually arrived at the classroom.

All through class, his mind was on the supernatural experiences he had encountered in the past few days. He couldn’t seem to focus on anything until he noticed Sarah, his best friend, sobbing beside him.

“Hey, hey,” he waved in her direction, trying to get her attention, but she wouldn’t turn.

After class, he ran up to her.

“What’s the problem?”

“Nothing.”

“Talk to me. I could be of help.”

“Don’t worry. It’s not something any human can do.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The doctors said my dad has only one week to live. He’s been battling leukemia, and I can’t seem to shake the feeling that he’ll soon be… be…” She paused as tears began dripping down her face—uncontrollably this time.

“Hey, I know I can’t help, but my mum once told me if nature gives you the chance to say goodbye, cherish every moment of it and not whine away in grief.”

She dabbed her eyes and looked at him. “Hmm… that felt relieving.”

“Can nature give a second chance?” she asked.

“Well… it can. Who knows.”

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and they both went to her house.

Her dad lay almost lifeless, his breathing laboured and his skin pale. Tyler held back his tears as memories of his late dad passed across his mind.

They spoke, ate, drank, and laughed the moments away.

Later that evening, back at home, Tyler hurriedly brought out a piece of paper and drew an image of her dad—not on a sick bed, but standing and laughing.

After completing it, he dropped the pen and paper on his room floor beside him. He didn’t want any mysteriously talking tree or imaginary woman speaking to him, so he avoided his usual spot—the almond tree.

He fell asleep, but not for long.

A sudden, violent vibration of his pen woke him. He stepped backwards, eyes fixed on it, when it suddenly spoke.

“You shouldn’t have dropped me carelessly on the floor.”

“Please, just let me be,” he pleaded.

“I can’t. I am you, and you are me.”

“No, we’re not!” He stomped on the pen aggressively, shattering it into multiple fragments.

The voice went mute.

He stood there, breathing heavily, sweating.

His phone suddenly chimed. It was a message from Sarah.

“Nature chose to spare my dad.”

Another message followed—a photo of her dad. Tyler zoomed in, and there he was, smiling and standing exactly like the one he sketched.

“Thank you. You’re my hero,” the final message read.

His face slowly curved into a smile as he lingered, admiring the photo.

His gaze then shifted to the shattered pieces, and his smile faded.

He finally understood what the old woman meant. “It’ll eat you from the inside.” She wasn’t being figurative—it was an internal conflict between choosing to be a hero or living a normal life, one where the supernatural respects its boundaries.

He packed the pieces and all his drawings, tossing them into an empty shelf.

Maybe someday, when he’s prepared to become a man—but for now, he’d rather remain the boy he's always been.

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