When we're children we all have crazy fantasies that when we're older seem foolish and redundant. Back then, however, they were truer than reality and, in fact, might just be the truth of reality. Many people believe when someone is born they have all the knowledge of the universe locked within their brains but loose that knowledge before they are able to talk. This is a very contradicting ideal but if it were true than why couldn't that mean children have a better understanding of our world than adults, who have lived to long to remember the truths of reality? If that is so then isn't the greatest form of fiction reality and vise versa? One man found this truth on his twentieth birthday; a man by the name of Mordecai Ashmore.
Mordecai was a humble man, soft spoken and quiet, most of the time. His eyes, a dark gray that seemed almost black, were normally kindly dazed as he looked around and twinkled when he spoke. Along with that his black hair was usually seen sleeked up and over his oval face, a few strands falling in limp locks to touch his cleft chin. All in all a kind and stout man, in public that is. At night, when the sky's glowing eye was cast away from him and he believed the moon never gave him a second glance, Mordecai would venture from his normal apartment on a calm and normal street. The houses around, most built identical but a few variations in colours, were always quiet as the other normal people -humble spoken but false in their spectacle- spoke in hushed whispers about one another. All of them changed when the sky's eye turned away blind. Perhaps this, Mordecai found himself often asking, was the real truth of reality. Whatever the cause he never wondered on it for more than a few moments a day before continuing on his beaten path.
That day, his forgotten birthday, was going to be the first time he strayed off the normal path. It wasn't an easy thing to do, especially because he had been trying to stray for the past month but never could make his feet do it. That day, a brisk fall day where the leaves were dancing below his feat as if to tell him 'Go Mordy, go and we'll be right behind you'. And they were. Those leaves danced behind the curve of his heals as he let his feat sink into the murky depths of a swamp. Where in the world he was he couldn't tell you in that moment because seconds before he had been walking down a sidewalk over looking a broken down house that had been calling to him for years. He feared that house, those broken shingles and the face made by it's windows and doors. He feared the one blinking eye that was it's shades flapping in the wind; the light from the center of the house, pulsing with life, was always gleaming behind that shade. But now the house was gone and nothing was left of the sidewalk
Mordecai was a humble man, soft spoken and quiet, most of the time. His eyes, a dark gray that seemed almost black, were normally kindly dazed as he looked around and twinkled when he spoke. Along with that his black hair was usually seen sleeked up and over his oval face, a few strands falling in limp locks to touch his cleft chin. All in all a kind and stout man, in public that is. At night, when the sky's glowing eye was cast away from him and he believed the moon never gave him a second glance, Mordecai would venture from his normal apartment on a calm and normal street. The houses around, most built identical but a few variations in colours, were always quiet as the other normal people -humble spoken but false in their spectacle- spoke in hushed whispers about one another. All of them changed when the sky's eye turned away blind. Perhaps this, Mordecai found himself often asking, was the real truth of reality. Whatever the cause he never wondered on it for more than a few moments a day before continuing on his beaten path.
That day, his forgotten birthday, was going to be the first time he strayed off the normal path. It wasn't an easy thing to do, especially because he had been trying to stray for the past month but never could make his feet do it. That day, a brisk fall day where the leaves were dancing below his feat as if to tell him 'Go Mordy, go and we'll be right behind you'. And they were. Those leaves danced behind the curve of his heals as he let his feat sink into the murky depths of a swamp. Where in the world he was he couldn't tell you in that moment because seconds before he had been walking down a sidewalk over looking a broken down house that had been calling to him for years. He feared that house, those broken shingles and the face made by it's windows and doors. He feared the one blinking eye that was it's shades flapping in the wind; the light from the center of the house, pulsing with life, was always gleaming behind that shade. But now the house was gone and nothing was left of the sidewalk
