Gorramn I'm florid some times in Rambling sane thoughts of the terminally me

Occasionally I find these on my hard drive. Pieces of work I started and never finished. It's kind of my thing. The master of the stories I'll never write. This one is especially weird. As I recall it was given to me as a challenge to write a story where the author was sent back in time to a fantasy universe setting. This is as far as I got. Enjoy.

Fantasy: The forming of mental images, especially wondrous or strange fancies; imaginative conceptualizing. Words are another restriction. Behind truth or conceptualisation. Behind thought or dismissed idle connections. Somewhere they get put into words and the truth behind them is lost. Just like this. It’s almost a magic trick. One so obvious anyone can do it, a verbal equivalent of someone appearing to pull their thumb off. We all know this but we try to allow ourselves to be fooled nonetheless because without that first spark of magic, of belief, what else is there? My words will, undoubtedly, be insufficient to the task of charting my nightmarish, gruesome, painful and utterly wonderful experience and so, like the announcer of a third rate penny theatre I must ask you to throw off the oppressive shackles of reality and listen with open thoughts to that which I shall recount. I do not ask you to believe, though you may find yourself impelled to accept without question. This, again, is the chicanery of words. My words started some three decades ago, plus a few short months too boring for anyone, save their mother, to speak of. Those months are the time of mothers, their captive audience bound to breath and breast, forever drinking from the font of constant noise until one day the inane scratching of the record skips and suddenly there is sense amid the chaos. Then the words start to pour in the young childs ear until they deem their head is full of the correct terminology and lift virgin voices in praise. What innocent truths would we have them speak? Unfortunately the time is never ripe for plucking and sentences have an abhorrent habit of going sour in your mouth. Usually an assurance of parenthood is all you get. My first sentence was “I do it”. Were that were true perhaps this story would turn out differently. Were I in control of events they would not have passed in quite so haphazard fashion and, certainly, I would have been painted in a much more positive light in them. However, as it transpires I didn’t do it but there are forces in the world that listen and assess the importance of any given moment and they, most assuredly, did. It is not necessary to our tale to paint a story of the many years of my life preceding the events I am going to describe. Indeed it would be a hedonistic act to do so since they lend little to the narrative and shall be, in any case, brought forth with all candour as and when they become relevant. However, in the interests that I do not appear to be as dull as the facts would have you believe I shall speak briefly regarding myself. I am, as I have said, in the fourth decade of my life, which is to say I am thirty one at the time of this writing. I have lived a life of merit though of some small consideration in the grand machinations of the universe. Friend to many and beloved by few I remain a perennial bachelor, by which I mean I love for more than two years and the fruit of such a plant, whilst undoubtedly sweet, is generally looked upon as rather easy to come by from other, healthier specimens. In short, there is little important to recommend me save my one grace, that which I lay before you in my act as chronicler of my own saga. I am of a small family with many extended relatives who are wide and varied in their beliefs and philosophical stand points with one notable exception. They will never believe the truths put forward this night. I must, sadly, write against their beliefs thus for the events written are true. This journal is penned on the fourth of October in the year of our Lord, 1011 and, sadly, shall wait for a thousand years before being read. The events which have come to place me, poor player, on such an unusual stage are the same I shall set before you and by doing so hope to warn you of the dangers yet to come. For, no matter who is reading this, be assured that they are coming. They ride towards unwary victims through words as if darting through mist; wielding each syllable with mastery and grace. Read quickly for they are riding tonight. I must begin with the initial events which brought me into such unhappy times and how they conspired to leave me as I am and shall forever more be. I do not remember the name of the book, its covers and binding like the cheap adornments of a whore have faded from my memory and even the specific words have trailed into the dusk tracks of my dreams to be only felt in the long wilderness before waking although, undoubtedly, the desert of night time burns me more now than ever before. I do remember purchasing the book, however. It found me in a small establishment. It could be called a shop only by virtue of the occasional ring of a till which seemed older than the building which housed it. I have a distinct recollection of the smell of the store owner. Rather the lack of smell for even as, within the crowded and dusty shelves, he sold to me the instrument of my own destruction, I was singularly impressed with how he fitted his environment...

And that's it. Can't remember why I gave up on the writing of this one. Presumably something shiny darted across my vision and I ran off to chase it. Hope you enjoyed nonetheless. Make up the rest of the story, I hope it was a good one.

Ramblerambleramble.