“So how come there are so many Sprites?” asked Sprite. “So many copies of me, and yet there was only one Spectre?”
“You’re a character in a children’s book,” replied Yuffie. “Read by millions of parents to their young ones. Your original author’s passed away. Many will remember you. Many will tell their children stories of you. You’ll be remembered for generations. A little piece of your creator will live on, in the millions of Sprites that you’ve met.”
“The book Spectre was in,” sighed Lucy, “never got published.”
“Before Reala arrived, there was another Reala” replied Lucy. “She led a dark carnival of vicious clowns, killer fire jugglers and a voodoo priestess. I liked her. Her creator died, walked up the road to the afterlife, she followed and later on, this one appeared.”
“So, I’m not even an original creation? I’m an alternative memory of someone’s creation?” asked Reala. “Is there anything original about me?”
“A few things,” said Yuffie. “Like, you know how to play Dancing Queen on a digeridoo.”
“Well,” chimed in Lucy. “That’s Abba-riginal.”
As someone who’s lived a life, perpetually misunderstood, I do wonder what’ll happen to peoples memories of my ideas when I’m no longer in their lives. Even when you write stuff down and show it to the world, everyone interprets your chicken scratches differently.
“Sprite,” said Yuffie as Sprite and Lucy arrived at the Grey Moon
pub. “Reala saw Spectre walking up the road to the afterlife last night.
By the time she got outside, he’d disappeared into the mists.”
Sprite deflated. “I didn’t think he’d…”
“Let’s go inside,” said Lucy, “I’ll get you a drink.”
Just then, the door burst open and Reala threw out a lion, a witch and a wardrobe. “I ain’t serving Narnia!” she cried.