There was a leather-bound book in his lap which looked old and well worn; the spine and covers were cracked and sand dry. The pages were course to the touch, and produced a raw scraping sound if you brushed your hand along them. The man was a careful reader. He turned a thick page slowly, marked his place with a yellow ribbon, and closed the book. Placing it on a small, intricately carved oak stand beside the chair, he rose and plodded to the door.

The pale room was a breeding ground for all things imaginative, though you would never think it from a mere sensory sweep, or a perceptive deduction. It was square, with an old wooden floor, which contained a maze of hidden instruments played by the skillful or unsuspecting feet of those who enjoyed the room. The walls were entirely bare, but extremely thick, and were interrupted only by a solid oak door, which harmonized with the floor when opened. The man who sat in the solitary high-backed chair was tall, and slender, with a face you would soon forget in a crowd. Besides his hands and feet being slightly too large in proportion to the rest of his body, he was indistiguishable. His hair was a dusty brown which always seemed a day away from needing a wash. Dim grey eyes belied old age, and seemed to be versed in a mood which could only be described as melancholic indifference. All in all he was the quintessential ghost. He was that 'other person' crossing the street, or standing in line.

Beginnings

This section of my blog will be devoted to creative writing. It has been kindled of late by my reading of Tolkien, and the enjoyment of The folks over at Maple Mountain. I hope it will be profitable, consistent, and God-glorifying. If time permits, I may (every so often) attempt to reincarnate the wonderful (yet bizzare) Pakistory, which is has a kind of cleansing affect for any other writing endeavours. True it is weird, and hardly understandable, but it allows writers to flush out nonsensical things while using clever anecdotes, alliterations, and other such things. You don't have to obey very many physical, natural, or emotional boundaries either, and you can't become too attached to characters or plot, because your fellow authors are just as likely to remove them, or polymorph them, or some other such thing as suits their needs and will at the time. In any case, I may see how long it takes everyone to realize I reinitialized the poor thing...

For now, enjoy the creation of a tale,

the bard