Category : Stories
Sub Category : Fantasy
He sits alone, even with friends, always, in his own world absorbed by his creation. As dusk burst forth with crimson rays shattering among the clouds, he realised it was due to walk home. On his journey he had found an old village, one that stood the tests of time, that lay on a clearing beyond a gushing river on the other edge of the dark forest. It was almost magical, the sights and sounds brought curiosity to his soul and a glimpse of his past, filled with tomes of knowledge, stories of legendary heros, he yearned to cross.
A guard approached him with greetings and tales, and beckoned him closer to the moss at the banks of the stream. He saw then, the depth of the rapids, its luminous quality, captivating but deadly.
"That village, is as old as I can remember, sitting peacefully at the roots of a snowy mountain, abundant in dreams and stories." The guard mused him, and seeing the thoughts that escaped the boys labyrinth he told him of a way to cross, "You could swim, no? Well, few make it like that anyway. You could forge a story, one to rise from the depths of your existence, to walk across as a bridge"
He left then, with a head heavy with thoughts and ideas, to a place he called home. It was a cabin in the woods and from its sights it seemed to be nothing grand yet nothing worthwhile either. But underneath the creaky boards a life of fantasy emerged. He sat to work on a dark wooden desk that had seen many stories written on it before, gazing into the abyss of the forest for serenity, little did he know an introspective journey was in its midst.
He could tell the secrets beyond nightly horror or fairy tales of dragons, pirates and magic, it was what he read most, he could tell you about the monsters of space and time although less certainly. Books had been his guardian, a safekeeper of his sanity from the outside world, some could argue it was ignorance but it mattered not.
Night had descended upon the world, as he struggled to write, for it was too cryptic and silent, he was not sure it would cross the river. The forest slowly began to rise in its slumber, soon the air outside was filled with fire flies and life, resting on the ever green grass below. A lesson was taught that night, it mattered not what he wrote, for those who failed to fathom the whisper would receive it later or never. But those who do will know.
He started with his name, Aiez Meridiem, a tale began afresh