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The Birth of a Liar (standard:fantasy, 567 words)
Author: CyranoAdded: Aug 10 2008Views/Reads: 1729/0Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
I love to write fantasy, to imagine writing so well that someone, perhaps just one, reading my words might willingly be carried aloft to sit on the rings of Saturn... and just wonder about writing...

I was not actually born on a roundabout, next to the Odeon cinema in
Gants Hill. The answer I so often give to inquiring strangers, but 
rather, on a fast flying cloud, only to have been released by a flash 
of lightning, then carried by a wave before turning up naked on a 
distant shore. It's an age old story, religiously told. I choose to 
tell it this way because I'm a writer, or, as some argue, a 
professional liar. 

You, being the reader, can choose what to believe. You can choose to be
entertained  just as you can determine that boredom has overtaken you, 
and cease reading at one full stop or another. I don't have the luxury 
of being able to do either. 

I lose myself in the depths of graves, mingling with bones, sifting
through dust, looking for a story. I can be found in the heart of a 
hero, or inside the soul of a herdsman, even seen through the eye of a 
beggar. I see multitudes worship the hero, find my serenity in the soul 
of a herdsman, and witness the clinging hope of the beggar as he 
receives bread from a stranger. I could stay and watch each story 
develop, but my mind lives in a transient abode. You see, I run the 
same course that writer's before me have run. Feel the same sun, drink 
from the same streams, see the same sights, meet the changes they must 
have met on their pilgrimage road. 

In the blink of an eye I'm passing Saturn, on my way toward Neptune,
dreaming of twilight. The dark cavity we call 'Space' offers me 
enchanted visions; plunging me into the mystery of future callings, 
mysteries that curdle with old religions, with family, with native 
land, and the cloud from which I once fell. In Space I'm carried on a 
tear, crossing boundaries no spacecraft could endure, away to places 
where sunshine and rain are but words in an abandoned library. Pleasure 
and pain are just velvet memories. The Lunar electricity distances me 
from the truth of the behemoths rutting beauty. 

I'm carried by a child's imagination toward a life-force of the future.
Exiled in bottomless, journeying nights and shrouded in the violet fog 
of words. I'm a writer carried on the backs of a sea horses, sojourning 
among the archipelagos of dreams. 

I journey with no companions, drifting only with mermaids under waves of
pearl, far below the clamoring of birds. I'm tossed and turned and made 
love to among off a thousand shorelines, living in the wrecks of ships, 
my lungs sodden with water, mindless of hurricanes, and grazing 
peacefully among the tranquil, prehistoric lives of ocean herds. 

The writer is transported on the adventures of his childhood, soaring on
the heights of each day, riding the genius for trouble. Such a child 
setting sail, and for whom there is never a turning back, knows only to 
do or die. 

Such is the bravery of a child's imagination. 

I am all these things 

I bathe in the juices of women, like a butterfly in May, touching the
tender membranes, splitting the keel and sailing ever on toward the 
untouchable, looking for the mysterious beginnings of my soul. Perhaps 
I will find it in the scented cavern where a child squats, needing 
everything but neglect. 

Yes, me, a child in the lower belly of literature.


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