Whatever My Son Draws In His Notebook—It Becomes Reality

 I didn't want to overwhelm him. Unsure of the potential harm or long-term effects, I started with small requests. Material things.

"Hey champ," I'd say, resting my hands on his shoulders as he opened his little black composition book. "Think you could draw a mustang? Make it black—no, blue."

I'd wring my hands like a nervous addict while waiting for my son to finish, never certain he'd draw exactly what I asked.

By then, I understood how his power worked. You just planted the idea, and the rest took care of itself. No need for specifics or photo-accuracy. His drawings were often crude, but the intent was clear.

When he finished the piece—a glob of blue crayon streaks—I opened the front door. There it was: a brand-new sky-blue Mustang gleaming in the driveway like it was fresh off the lot.

I wanted to stop asking him for things, I really did. His ability to bring drawings to life scared me, not just because of what he could do, but because I worried about its effect on his seven-year-old brain.

I planned to take him to a psychologist or something, but of course, I never did. Instead, I kept asking for more. A boat, a bigger house, designer watches, clothes, jewelry—all materialized from his crayon strokes. Soon, I was sweeping entire racks of art supplies into my shopping cart at Walmart.

The IRS started leaving voicemails. Neighbors visited more often. Co-workers pestered me with questions. I had to stop for a while. I did.

Two months later, my son boarded the bus for his first day of first grade. I hardly knew what to do with myself while he was gone.

When his bus returned that afternoon, I ran to the corner. As he stepped off, I asked about his day, quickly ushering him back into the house. I had some things I wanted drawn.

He told me the teachers had all the kids draw something from their imagination as a way of introducing themselves.

My eyebrows furrowed. "Well, what'd you draw, champ?"

He pulled out his comp book and flipped to a page showing a colorful drawing of a dozen alien ships firing laser beams at the Earth.

My eyes went wide. I leapt up and ran to the window. Looked up. The sky was clear, but for how long? I turned back to my son, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

"Do you like it, Dad?" he asked, reaching for a fresh crayon. "I can make it even better!"

"No, wait!"