I found this story in the street

I found this story in the street.

 

It was just lying there. I picked it up, intrigued, I can’t explain why.

 

It was hand-written on a crumpled piece of paper. I started reading it and found that I couldn’t stop. It was unputdownable, I wanted to find out what happened.

 

I assumed it must be a copy of a published story, it seemed too good to be thrown away. I googled it, tried various quotes from within the meat of the story, but there was no record of it anywhere online.

 

I typed it up. It was perfect, I didn’t need to change a word. I showed it to friends, who were as impressed as I was.

 

“If the story’s nowhere online there’s nothing to stop you posting it,” my friend Ellen said.

 

“But I didn’t write it,” I said.

 

“You don’t need to claim you wrote it, just post it, share it with the world. If anyone claims authorship you can always take the story down.”

 

She introduced me to a writing site, abctales.com, and I signed up as a member.

 

The story was chosen as pick of the day and story of the week. I wanted to say it wasn’t mine, that I was just the finder, but I was so busy thanking people for their nice comments that I didn’t quite get round to it.

 

“You should enter it in a competition,” someone on the site suggested. Coincidentally another member had posted a link to a free to enter competition.

 

By now it felt like my story. I didn’t create it, not in the normal sense, but it was me who typed it up, who had posted it online, who had discussed it with friends and with online fans. It was me who sent it off to the competition. It was my name on the application form.

 

After that, things took a momentum of their own. There was the competition win, followed by publication and photos, and then it was spotted by a national magazine, 2 million readership. I was offered a considerable sum of money for the publication rights, which I accepted, meaning to pass the money on if the author ever appeared.

 

I was forever being asked to write more. I started pounding the streets in search of another abandoned stories, but there were no more to be found. I even tried writing a story of my own, but nothing would come out, the page remained blank.  

 

Then one day there was a knock on my front door. I opened it to find a roughly-dressed man in his early thirties.

 

“Hello,” I said to the stranger, “can I help you?”

 

“It’s me,” he said. “Grigor.”

 

“Grigor? I don’t know a Grigor.”

 

“Grigor from the story.”

 

“What do you want?” I said, fearing the worse. “Are you the author?”

 

“No, no,” he said, “I am not the one who wrote the story. I am the guy in the story, the character.”

 

“What do you want?” I repeated.

 

“You are responsible for me,” he said.

 

“No I’m not,” I said, “I didn’t write it, how can I be responsible for you?”

“The author has gone missing,” Grigor said, “I am author orphaned you might say, so you become my foster author.”

 

In spite of my protestations I let Grigor in. “As my foster author you owe me lunch at least.” I made him a lunch of sardines and toast.

 

As he was eating there was another knock at the door. I opened it to find a Cartoon Elephant.

 

“Hello,” I said, “can I help you?”

 

“It’s me,” he said. “The Cartoon Elephant.”

 

“The Cartoon Elephant? I don’t know a Cartoon Elephant.”

 

“The Cartoon Elephant from the story.”

“What do you want?” I said.

 

“You are responsible for me,” he said.

 

“No I’m not,” I said, “I didn’t write the story, I only found it.”

 

In spite of my protests I let the Cartoon Elephant in and made him a lunch of sardines and toast.

 

As he was eating there was another knock at the door. I opened it to find the Prime Minister of Denmark.

 

“Hello,” I said, “can I help you?”

 

“It’s me,” he said. “The Prime Minister of Denmark.”

 

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

 

“I don’t know,” he admitted reluctantly, “it’s just how the story’s written.”

“You’d better come in,” I said. “The Cartoon Elephant and Grigor are here. Would you like some sardines and toast?”

 

“Oh yes please,” said the Prime Minister of Denmark, “Nobody ever thinks to offer me sardines. It’s the worst thing about being Prime Minister.”

 

Within no time the three characters from the story were all tucking in to sardines and toast.

 

“I suppose we head to ending now?” Grigor said, having finished his sardines.

 

“I suppose so,” I said.

 

“I mean we have all characters here: yourself, myself, the Cartoon Elephant and the Prime Minister of Denmark. There is no point in waiting.”

 

“I agree,” said the Prime Minister of Denmark, “I’m a busy man, I appreciate the sardines and everything, but I can’t sit here all day waiting for the story to end. You should get on with it.”

 

“Floop,” said the Cartoon Elephant.

 

“Floop?”

 

“It’s my catchphrase,” the Cartoon Elephant explained. “A silly noise I make. Kids love it.”

 

“So,” said Grigor, interrupting the Cartoon Elephant, “no more floop, no more poop, let us get on with it.”

 

“The thing is,” I said, “when I found the story in the street and started to read it, I sort of assumed it had an ending. But what if it didn’t?”

 

“If it didn’t”, Grigor said, darkly, “we are trapped, all four of us, me, you, the Cartoon Elephant and the Prime Minister of Denmark, we are all trapped here in an unfinished story ‘til the end of time.”