From the Pen of Atticus




Dear Reader,

To be sure, I know nothing about you; nevertheless, I feel that there are some things you need to know about me. More so, there are  things you must know about my writing.

For starters, perhaps I should tell you that becoming an author was not my intent. As I see it, however, I had no other choice. In fact, if I am being honest — which I am sure is the only way you want me to be — then I must tell you that the tales which I pen have been more of a burden to me than anything else.

Secondly, these stories are not even my invention. It all started the moment I discovered that I had “the gift.” You see, I am what some call a fabulator. That is, I can sense great stories within others — stories of Magic, tales of great Enchantment. It is not something I am proud of, mind you, for it is not something I learned. Rather, it is who I am. It is an ability that I’ve been given, and one that I must use.

Nevertheless, this strange ability does not apply to every sordid tale or curious narrative. Instead, it pertains only to those stories which speak of the vitae essentia — the essence of life.

But I digress. As I mentioned, these stories were not born of my imagination, rather they came from the very tongues of those who lived them. Of course, I would like to say that I am grateful for their telling, but because of the suffocating weight that I have unduly borne with their knowledge, I simply cannot.

Now that is not to say that I wish I had never heard them, nor is to say that I deny their reality or even their significance. Instead, it is to say that if not for my dear friend Friar Tuck (not the one of Nottingham lore, obviously) I would surely be dead by now. As it was, it was he who convinced me to rid myself of this great weight by putting pen to paper. He said that in doing so I would experience something called catharsis.

Anyway, I suppose to some degree Tuck was right, for I did feel something the moment these stories were out of my head and onto the page. However, I am not at all sure that what I felt is necessarily better. In fact, I am fairly certain that what I felt was much, much worse. For you see, by making these curious accounts available to others — readers like yourself — I am afraid I have put them (read: you) in grave danger. For you must understand, Reader, that not every story is harmless fun.

Needless to say, the irony of all of this is that I really cannot begin to explain the danger I am putting you in until you have read these stories for yourself.

However, thirdly (and most importantly), I must tell you that you should probably not read the stories that I will be writing. What I can tell you (though I’m not sure how helpful this will be) is that the danger you will face upon reading is not the murderous thieving kind. You need not fear waking up dead one morning upon finishing any of these tales. Instead, the peril of which I speak is altogether different, for it is a kind that does not involve the body, at least not immediately.

Let me say it this way. It has been said that the eyes are the window to the soul. I believe that this is meant to suggest that one’s eyes reflect what is in one’s heart, but what if the opposite is also true? I mean, what if the only way to see into your own soul is by looking through the window of your own eyes?

Perhaps I have already said too much.




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