Chapter 1

So here's the 1st chapter of the story that I've been writing. If some of you are reading this, it's the same story as the one that has the prologue in the post before. I hope you all like it.

Chapter 1

The knight unsteadily rose to his feet. Battered and bruised, he gazed up towards the leering face of his opponent. Through the heat wave, there hovered a head of grotesque proportions. It kept itself concealed behind the smoke and flames. All that could be seen was its dark eyes, gleaming maliciously. A deep raspy cackle rumbled around the knight. The knight stared down his veiled opponent defiantly, showing no fear.

“Show yourself, you cowardly worm,” yelled the knight. “You cannot hide forever. Come and face me like a man.”

The cackling continued and grew louder. The menacing glow brightened to an evil incardinate hue.

“Me? Face you?” asked the cackling voice. “That would mean I acknowledged you and your challenge. That I will never do. You are in no manner my equal. To me, you are nothing more than an insect that refuses to die.” As the voice was still speaking, the knight was struck to the ground. The cackle became a full blown guffaw as it watched the knight struggle back to his feet. “Why don’t you accept your defeat? I can strike you at any time and you cannot stand against my attacks. Do you still want to defy me?”

The knight surveyed his present situation. His armor was dented, scratched, and scorched. His sword was nicked and damaged. Numerous abrasions, bruises, and burns covered his face, arms, and legs. By sheer will power alone did he continue to stand. But a fire burned in his heart that would not die and it only continued to grow with each passing minute. Lifting his eyes, he met the ones of his enemy vilely glowing. Then a wry smile crept across the knight’s face.

“I do.” Resolve and determination emanated from every part of the knight’s being. “And I will continue to defy you until you are defeated, writhing in misery as you die. So prepare, foul beast,” commanded the knight as he raised his sword, “to fall by my hand.” With a loud cry, he lunged forward and leapt into the flames and smoke. “Die!”

A loud splash came from the kitchen at the Happy Cat Restaurant.

“Elaine, what’s going on?” A young woman peeked her head inside the door that connected the kitchen to the rest of the restaurant. “What happened?”

A dark haired girl with pink dish gloves looked over her shoulder at the questioner. Some soapy suds sat lightly on her check and nose. “Sorry, Emily. I was slaying a dragon.” She raised a scrubby covered in pasta sauce. “See, I’ve vanquished the beast and the world has been rid of yet another villain to the dish world.” She placed a clean pasta pot into the drying rack to her left. “I didn’t realize it had gotten out of hand.”

Shaking her head, Emily smiled and walked over to her friend. She put her arm around Elaine’s shoulders and laughed quietly.

“You are truly something else, Elaine. But you better watch that you don’t go doing something like that again or Auntie Esther will come in and-”

“I know,” Elaine interrupted. A chill went down her spine. “Not pretty. Don’t worry I’ll be careful.”

“Good.”

The girls gave each other a quick hug and Emily walked back towards the door to the restaurant.

“Remember that we’re going into the dinner rush. So be prepared for the onslaught of dishes to come.”

“Fear not, fair maiden,” Elaine said in her best Shakespearian voice, flourished with a bow. “I shall be ready for them. En guarde!” She brandished her sponge as threateningly as possible with soap suds and pink gloves. Emily laughed outright and walked out. Elaine returned to the few dishes left in the sink and looked at them thoughtfully. “Well, my friends,” she spoke to the dishes, “now that we have vanquished that dreadful dragon, what new quest shall we pursue?”

That evening, Elaine climbed up the stairs to her room trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake the rest of the house. Closing her bedroom door, she dumped her purse and jacket on the edge of the bed before getting ready for bed. Once dressed in her nightgown and robe, she grabbed her notebook and a pen and walked out onto the balcony attached to her room. She walked to the edge, having placed her journal and pen on the rocking chair that sat on the balcony. Gazing up through the street lights at the barely visible stars, she traced the few constellations she could identify. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply as a light breeze played with her loose hair.

Opening her eyes, she looked down at the garden that was her family’s backyard. Bushes of roses formed a half moon around a small wooden bench and a wisteria vine had made great headway climbing up the trellis that shaded the patio. Marigolds, pansies, impatiens, and various other flowers made a floral patchwork quilt. Her mother’s herb garden added a pleasant aroma to the enchanting atmosphere. Finally getting her fill for the night, she sat down in the rocking chair to write down the story that had been formulating as she’d washed dishes.

She relished the time when her ideas came down on paper. It never ceased to amaze her how the vibrant images of her mind could be encapsulated in the inky words. This was always her favorite time of day, a time when she could let her imagination go wild. Everything seemed poised to assist her. She could almost think she heard the stars singing or the breeze laughing. Here in the night air more than any other time, she believed that the words would revert to their former imagery and come to life. In a deep part of her heart, she wished they would become real, just once. Just once, she wanted to experience the people places, and adventures she could only imagine. The thought of magic and dragons, fairies and knights gave Elaine a thrill like no other. But her head always reminded her that none of those things were real and could never happen outside her own imagination. So she had taken to writing all her fabulous tales and quests at evening when she could almost believe they could all come true.

As she wrote, a small light floated up from the backyard to land on her shoulder. Accompanying the light was a delicate tinkling like small, distant bells. Turning to see why the light had suddenly improved, Elaine smiled at the jingling shining ball.

“What do you think?”

“Hmm” was the reply. The voice sounded like bubbles bursting or water trickling over little pebbles. The light rose from where it had perched itself and hovered over Elaine’s open journal as if getting a closer look. After a short while, it returned to its original place on her shoulder.

“Not bad,” said the voice at last. “Most of it’s pretty good but this part here about sprites and pixies is wrong. They’re not really malicious or anything sinister like that. More they just enjoy a bit of fun at the expense of other people.”

“Sounds like you,” Elaine stated teasingly. The light started violently.

“I am nothing like those childish fiends. I don’t even know how you could think that of me.”

“Well, let me see.” The girl put on a mock thinking expression. “There was the time my pen kept disappearing.”

“You were very forgetful that night,” the light commented. “Always forgetting where you put it last.”

“Then explain how I saw it flying from place to place . . . with you.”

“Well . . . um . . .” stammered the tinkling voice.

“And there was that other time,” Elaine interrupted, “when my hair mysteriously kept getting everywhere. Oh and I once had to dig my bed from a pile of leaves and flowers. And my nightgown decided one night to have a night on its own and would not be worn. Oh yeah, and . . .”

“Ok, ok, stop already,” the light pleaded. “So I’ve been mischievous, a little. That does not make me a pixie. Besides,” it flew close to Elaine’s face. “I only tease people I like.” Elaine rolled her eyes at her little friend’s attempt to reinstate itself into her good graces.

“You must like me a whole lot then.” She laughed and leaned back in her chair, starting its rocking. “I know what you are anyway.”

“And what would that be?” pushed the voice.

“A firefly,” Elaine said confidently. A smile shot across her face when she heard the little voice gasp in disgust.

“You are so mean tonight,” pouted the voice. “First a pixie and now a bug. I don’t think I’ll come visit you ever again.”

“Yeah right. You’ll be back tomorrow with some trick up your firefly sleeve.”

“Oh, you’re insufferable.” With a huff, the light began to fly back towards the garden.

“Good night and sweet dreams,” Elaine called after it. It stopped and hovered indecisively for a few moments.

“Good night,” the voice answered curtly and darted down to its home amidst the flowers.

Smiling at her small friend’s antics, Elaine got up and walked back into her room. She placed the journal on one of the many book shelves that adorned her walls. The pen came to rest in a cup with its brother pencils and sister highlighters. A long slim cat raised its head from where it lay curled at the head of her bed. Rising gently on its tiny paws, it stretched and trotted lightly towards Elaine. The girl reached out and stroked its soft grey head. A gentle purr rumbled.

“Ah, have you missed me, Fluffy?” It nuzzled her head further so that Elaine’s hand slid along and petted its back. It looked back at her with one brown eye and one golden eye full of love and contentment. “I guess so then, huh? I’ve missed you too. Come on now. It’s time for bed.” The cat trotted back towards the top of the bed and pushed a pillow out of the way. Elaine hung her purse on its hook and put the jacket in the closet. Then she pulled back the sheet and comforter and got under them. The cat followed suit and snuggled next to her. Closing its di-colored eyes, it promptly fell asleep in Elaine’s arms. She smiled happily and Rest quickly worked her magic.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Someone was crying. She had to help them. Trees rustled past. The crying grew louder, crescendoing every moment. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Her heart quickened with each successive cry. She had to reach them before it was too late. But she was so tired. Finally, she had to stop and catch her breath. Down she fell and hit the forest floor. The crying continued, piercing her very soul. Something had to be done. Someone had to do something. But there was no one else around who seemed to hear the plaintive cry. As she lay on the ground, she began to weep over the anguished crying soul.

Prologue

So I am actually going to post a story I've written. Yay! 'Bout time, I know. Hopefully, this will be a more common occurance but I suppose that time will tell. I hope all of you who are reading this (which may not actually be many) enjoy it. If you have any suggestions, critiques, or anything of that sort, please comment as that will be helpful for me. :) Thanks and have a good read.

Prologue

Do you know the place called Alethea? You may not recognize the name but you’ve been there. Most people have at least. It’s that place between dreaming and waking where things are too fantastic to be really real but too authentic to be a dream. Remember it now? Maybe you swam with a dolphin that recited Shakespeare’s sonnets or played on the stars like a trampoline. Maybe you heard your mother calling you home for dinner or your little brother asking you to read that story just one more time before bed. Whatever it may be, those have all been places in Alethea, only you didn’t know it. Most people don’t. But there are a few that do. Not so many now as there used to be. That’s due mostly to people not truly believing that Alethea exists any more and just attributing their experiences to a “very vivid dream.” Ever wondered why you get déjà vu sometimes? It’s because you did it in Alethea. At least, most of those types of experiences are due to having traveled through there. It’s a wonderful place. Terribly good you might say. Yes, that’s the phrase, terribly good. It might be frightening or terrible but it’s good. Not easy to explain that.

Now that I’ve jogged you memory a bit, I want to tell you a story of how Alethea was saved. Oh believe me, Alethea needs just as much saving as our world does today just . . . in different ways. This was the first of its rescues. You’ll never hear about it in any major newspaper or blog or website but you’ll hear it here. And the heroes of these stories will never be on TV talk shows or in movies or history books but they’ll remain immortal to those of Alethea. The heroes are people from our world who are given the very special privilege of coming into Alethea voluntarily. Normally, we get there involuntarily through dreams and what not. But these chosen few are given the choice to come if they so desire. Perhaps, one day, I will write of the all the times that Alethea has been saved and of her many saviors. But that will have to wait for just a bit. Anyways, I don’t know if anyone would really want to hear about them. Perhaps you will, once my story it finished. If you, dear reader, are the only one who ever becomes interested in Alethea, then my purpose will have been accomplished. Enough explanation now though. On with the story.

Our story begins in a serene valley. Can you see it? Lush, rolling hills forming a beautiful dell through which runs a clear blue stream. If you were to follow this steady stream, it would slowly grow into a rushing river, eventually ending in a courtly cascade. This cascade plunges into a deep pool, looking blue-green around the edges and inky black at its center. Just past this pool is a grove of wispy aspen trees, swaying at the slightest playful breeze. The leaves are a mixture of emerald, ruby, and gold. A light layer of fallen leaves are strewn around the bases of their respective trees and form a kind of carpet to a small stone table. Looking like a water-beaten rock, the edges of this table are worn smooth as glass. In fact, if it were not light gray and slightly speckled, you would indeed think it is truly glass.

Beside this table stands a man. His silvery blond hair falls to his waist in wisps on his black cloak like fog gliding in on a dark evening. His face is all ages and yet none. From one angle, he could be a boy just beginning manhood and from another, finishing the race of life. A face full of the gaiety of youth and the wisdom of age. Across from him stands another man. Yet he is not really a man for he is truly a centaur. Arms crossed upon his broad chest, he looks like a powerful barbarian lord from ages past. His raven hair falls to his shoulders, complementing his tawny horse hide. His tail, as black as the hair on his head, quickly swishes back and forth, revealing his frustration. Both man and centaur are staring intently at the surface of the table, the center fluid, in a sense. Images flitter across, never lasting more than a few moments. Neither of the watchers make a sound, as if a single voice would disturb the frolicking pictures. At last, the pictures stop switching and continue in a coherent progression. The man and the centaur watch the scene unfold before them. The man’s eyes grow wide. One hoof paws the ground angrily. All their attention is riveted on the scene before them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Tears fall slowly. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Something white thunders through the trees. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Something metal zings. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. An eye full of tears looks mournfully as a giant tear rolls down. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. A quiet voice says, “Save me.” Thump-thump. Thump-thump. A blur of images. And a young woman bolts upright in bed.

Handing Over the Messiah

One of the books that I'm having to read for one of my classes is The Wounded Healer by Henri J.M. Nouwen. In it, he talks about the ways in which a minister is to serve those around him while accepting his own frailties and woundedness. It is very good and I recommend it but what I especially liked was an illustrative story he told. It really made me think about how many times I have ignored actually interacting with people and getting to know them. I hope it impacts you as well.

One day a young fugitive, trying to hide himself from the enemy, entered a small village. The people were kind to him and offered him a place to stay. But when the soldiers who sought the fugitive asked where he was hiding, everyone became very fearful. The soldiers threatened to burn the village and kill everyone in it unless the young man was handed over to them before dawn. The people went to the minister and asked him what to do.

The minister, torn between handing over the man to the enemy and having his people killed, withdrew to his room and read his Bible, hoping to find an answer before dawn. After many hours, in the early morning his eyes fell on these words: "It is better that one man dies than that the whole people be lost."

Then the minister closed the Bible, called the soldiers and told them where the fugitive was hidden. And after the soldiers led the young man away to be killed, there was a feast in the village because the minister had saved the lives of the people.

But the minister did not celebrate. Overcome with deep sadness, he remained in his room. That night an angel came to him, and asked, "What have you done?" He said: "I handed over the fugitive to the enemy." Then the angel said: "But don't you know that you have handed over the Messiah?" "How could I know?" the minister replied anxiously. And the angel said: "If, instead of reading your Bible, you had visited this young man just once and looked into his eyes, you would have known."

By Great Mercy

At one time, you could hear a strange voice from the tombs near the Gerasenes. For once a madman lived there. Anyone could find him if they wished. All they needed to do was follow the man’s howlings but none dared go near him.

Before his madness, he had been known as Reuben ben-David. Though he had been raised in a faithful Jewish home, Reuben had chosen to follow the ways of their Roman oppressors. For this, he was disowned by his family and thrown from the synagogue. Rueben didn’t care though. He continued his carousing and never looked back long enough to see the grief he’d left in his wake. It was then that his life started to change. Increasingly, he began to become more and more violent, even without the usual inducement of wine. Then he started saying things totally uncharacteristic of him and kept to himself more and more. Finally, something snapped and everyone knew it. People tried to bind him with sturdy ropes but Reuben would release himself from them as if they were twine. They tried chains multiple times, praying to any and all gods that these would hold him. But the chains were as the ropes for he tore the chains and broke the shackles around his wrists and ankles. At last, he was driven from town and took up living in the tombs, finding no other refuge.

But these were not truly the actions of Reuben ben-David. His mind was not his own. He had been usurped of authority over his own body by spirits he had encouraged to enter through his wild living. If anyone had been brave enough to look into his eyes, they would have not seen the regular clear eyes of any other human being but a legion of faces leering and taunting the looker. For a few brief moments, Reuben would be himself but always knowing what was inside him. He would grab stone, which laid in plenty on the floors of the caves he inhabited, cutting himself deeply. If only he cut deep enough then these spirits would be able to leave his body and he would be free once more. At least, this was his reasoning. But the voiced that controlled him laughed at his vain efforts to release himself from his imprisonment.

“Go on then. Release us. Let us run as you blood.” And they would force him to cut himself deeper and throw him on the ground scraping his skin against the rocks. “You will never be rid of us,” they taunted. “You are ours and we will never let go.” At these times, Reuben would weep bitter tears of remorse and sorrow. So he lived his days in a delicate state between sanity and insanity, constantly going between the two as his masters permitted.

But then the day arrived when all that changed. From the mouth of his cave, Reuben saw a small boat approach. He wondered who these new visitors could be for he had seen the violent storm upon the sea, having been forced to cry aloud and wail like the wind adding his voice to the noise of the tempest. He gnawed on a piece of stone as he watched the boat gently glide onto the sandy beach. Then one of the passengers stepped out of the boat. As soon as his foot touched the ground, an unexpected surge ran through Reuben’s entire being. An unearthly scream ripped from his throat. All that he could see or feel was darkness and despair. His body, under the control of those who possessed him, rushed forward toward the man from the boat, all the time shrieking from the depth of his being. Reaching the beach, the madman fell at the other man’s feet. For the briefest of moments, Reuben’s own mind took over and he looked up into the face of the visitor. Their eyes locked for that moment and the madman’s eyes pleaded what his mouth could not. The new man understood that look given by the man at his feet. In an authoritative voice, he commanded,

“Come out of this man, you evil spirit!” Immediately, the man was thrown violently against the ground. From within him rose a rasping malicious voice, crying out in the loudest possible volume Reuben could make.

“What do you want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? Swear to God that you won’t torture me!” The madman cowered from Jesus in absolute terror. Jesus in turn looked severely down upon the pitiful creature before him.

“What is your name?” Then, to the horror of the disciples, a chorus of voices joined the original voice, all equally and possibly more evil than the first. As the spectators looked at the madman’s eyes, they saw his eyes begin to swarm with grotesque faces.

“My name is Legion for we are many. I beg you, Son of God, not to send us away from here.” And so they continued to beg of Jesus. Reuben’s body glanced about itself furtively, like a hunted animal looking for shelter. His eyes locked on the local herd of pigs snuffling nearby.

“Send us among the pigs,” the voices pleaded. Their body groveled at Jesus’ feet. “Allow us to go into them.”

“Go,” he said simply. With a great cry, a vast host seemed to burst from the man. All these shapes of evil fled quickly to the herd. In a mad rush, the whole herd careened down the hillside with no regard for each other or where they were headed. The whole heard, two thousand in all, charged to their deaths in the sea.

Turning back to the man formerly possessed by Legion, he lay prone on the ground like a corpse. His eyes were closed. His hair lay matted and his beard, grown long from lack of attention, sat in knots and clumped with blood. His skin not only bore innumerable scars from his vain attempts at salvation but also was burned from head to toe because its former masters had not allowed him to bear clothing of any kind. His lips were dry and cracked and dirt clung to every part of him. Jesus kneeled down beside the man and gazed down kindly into the man’s face.

“Wake-up. They’re gone,” he said gently, as one would speak to a frightened child. Slowly the former madman’s eyes opened, first one and then the other. And his eyes reflected only the image of his saviour. Taking Jesus’ proffered hand, he wobbled up to a standing position. Finally, upright, he kept a tight hold on his saviour’s hand.

“Thank you,” the man uttered at last. Jesus smiled and asked one of the disciples to get something for the released man from the boat.

“What is your name?”

“My name,” the man paused for he had been under Legion’s possession for so long and so heavily that he could not for a time remember his own name. But then it began to return like a light at the end of a tunnel growing bigger and bigger. “My name . . . my name is . . . my name . . . is . . .” A smile spread across his haggard face as he fairly shouted, “Reuben! My name is Reuben son of David and Tirzah of the tribe of Gad.” Jesus smiled with him and helped him put on the clothes his disciple had brought. And Reuben began to gush forth about his family and tragic story leading up to his salvation.

As the delivered man was relating his history, a crowd began to gather having heard of the possessed man and the drowning of the herd. In turn, everyone gasped to see the former madman not only wearing clothing but also having a regular conversation.

“There he is!’ those who had been tending the pigs shouted, pointing at Jesus. “We saw him. He commanded a host of spirits to kill our pigs. And he,” they motioned to Reuben, “he released the spirits.” After this explanation of what happened, all the people begged Jesus and his followers to leave. Reuben looked at them all in dismay. Many of those in the crowd he knew, had even been friends with them. He tried to call out to them, show them the dramatic change that had been wrought in him but no one listened to him. He glanced to see what Jesus would do in response and saw him head towards the boat. Seeing that he wasn’t getting anywhere with the crowd, Reuben began to follow the disciples to the boat. As he saw Jesus getting into the boat and the other disciples starting to shove off, he realized that they were not intending to take him with them.

“Wait!” he cried. “Wait for me. Please don’t leave me behind!” They seemed to pay him no heed. How could they leave him here? “Jesus!” he shouted desperately as he neared the boat. Jesus bowed his head and looked back at the man he had saved. “Please,” asked Reuben simply. “Don’t leave me behind.”

“You can’t come with me this time,” Jesus answered gently.

“But why?” the freed man begged to know. Tears brimmed in Reuben’s clear eyes.

“I need you here,” Jesus continued. “Go home to your family and tell them how much the Lord has done for you, and how he has had mercy on you.” Then he whispered so no one but Reuben could hear. “We will meet again.” This still did not prevent the man’s brimming tears from running down his cheeks.

Reuben watched mournfully as the boat carrying his saviour sailed away. Accepting that he was gone, the crowd dispersed and returned home. Reuben remained at the shore for several minutes, thinking over everything that had happened. What kept returning to him swat the reaction the spirits to the presence of Jesus and what they called him, Son of the Most High God. Could it be? Could this man really be the son of God? In his early days, he would have denied it vehemently or protested that anyone could be the son of a god. But now, after all he’d experienced, Reuben was sure that the man who had just sailed away was truly the Son of the Most High God.

“Well then,” he thought to himself, “I had better obey his commands.” So he got up and started to ascend the hill. Glimpsing up at the top of the hill, he spotted two people who had not left with the rest of the crowd. He began to move more quickly, excited that someone at least had stayed long enough to hear what he had to say. As he got closer, he realized he knew these people very well.

“Abba! Ima!” It had been so long since he had seen them last but they were still the same. A few feet from his parents, he stopped. He looked from first his father and then to his mother. They looked at him and could barely recognize the young man who had left their home. For several moments the family stared at one another. Then Reuben ran forward and embraced his father, tears fallin in rivers down his face.

“Oh, Abba, I am so sorry. “ His father answered with a tightened grip on his son and stains where his tears fell. And so they stood arm-in-arm, father and son. Finally, Reuben turned to where his mother stood patiently, weeping at the scene she had just witnessed. The son took her in his arms and held her close as if he would never let her go again.

“Tirzah,” David said hoarsely, “our son is back from the grave.”

“It is a miracle,” she answered. Tirzah stepped back and held her son’s face with both hands. “Oh my boy, my darling son. How did this happen?”

“By the great mercy of Yahweh,” Reuben replied. “Abba, Ima, I think I’ve found the Messiah.” David and Tirzah stared in astonishment at their son’s incredible claim. Easily, their son understood their thoughts. “I know that it is difficult to explain but the man who saved me is truly the Son of God.”

“You can tell us more when we get home,” David suggested. So the threesome went back to their home and Reuben shared all of his experiences and his encounter with Jesus. Now, a voice is speaking throughout the whole area of the Gerasenes and the Decapolis of the wonders of Jesus. And that voice is the same that once howled in the tombs.

Tale Continued

One day when the sun shone cheerily and puffy white clouds floated aimlessly, Rowena was sitting in rapt attention as Excelsior finished his tale of his pilgrimage to Jerusalem.

“Just as we thought we would perish, a mighty lion appeared. His hid shone like melted gold and thunder was his roar. As quick as lightning, he sprang upon the bandits and chased them all away without ever turning to molest my fellow pilgrims and me.”

“Do you think Saint George really sent the lion?” the young child asked.

“I truly believe so, child,” he answered. “What kind of story would like me to tell you now?”

Rowena’s face scrunched in deep childish thought and then quickly brightened with an idea. “A treasure hunt,” she said gleefully. The old knight smiled at the girl’s excitement.

“A treasure hunt, you say? I think I have just the one.” Rowena settled herself for the story. “This is a story my grandmother told me when I was not much older than you. Well, before I begin, let me tell you that there is a special treasure that appears every seven years and has a rather special map that leads to it. This map will only show pieces of the map and will only expand once you’ve reached the edge of the revealed region. Now that you know this, I will begin my story.

“Many years ago a knight named Oliver came from small country town long forgotten by men. He longed to go upon some great quest but all was peaceful in his village and all the area around it. Resolved not to become idle and self-consumed, Oliver worked in his family’s carpentry shop as if he’d never been knighted. Not many days later, an old man came to the town. His clothes were thing and dirty and he carried a large walking stick carved with many intricate designs. As he walked, he limped greatly and leaned heavily on his stick. Around his waist, he wore a rope belt from which hung an assortment of talismans for, you see, he was . . .” The storyteller stopped for a dramatic pause and then ended, “a gypsy.” A little gasp followed the revelation. “Yes, a gypsy and when they saw him all the villagers rushed to their homes and locked their doors.

Bit About Me

So I guess it would be best to tell you a little about myself and the plans I have for this blog. I have a dual fascination for meanings behind names and stories in any form (books, movies, radio dramas, theatre, tv shows). Both have influenced the naming of the blog. The purpose though will be story-oriented. Sometimes I'll post various things that happen in my life that I believe are either of interest to others or have been beneficial to me in some way. At other times, there will be stories from my own feeble brain. They may range from historical fiction to fantasy to fanfiction. I do not guarantee that the stories will be of any interest or excellence but they will be what they will be. Well, I suppose that's about it and I'll post again when something come up.

Venturing Out

Hello all,

I know there have been many of you who have been awaiting this fateful day, the day I got . . . a blog! Yes, I have done it. I have taken the plunge into cyberspace. So here it is. This shall be a place where I share stories out both my life and imagination. If some things are nonsensical or incoherent, I apologize ahead of time. Thus begins my time as a blogger. What have I gotten myself into?