Written Words

Ever since I could remember, words had fascinated me. As a child after learning how to read, I devoured books. I remembered having very little toys, and so to pass my days I would read. Like a hungry little wolf, I consumed books with a voracious apetite. How could twenty little letters build worlds of magical places? How could those small black words compressed in a bound book painted such vivid pictures in my mind? The phenomenon was beyond my comprehension.Growing up a little older, I found out that I too could turn those letters into words and then arranged them to fashion myself a world of my own with characters of my own. I too had a story to tell. With a pen and a piece of paper, I could create worlds within worlds. I could paint pictures without colors, make music without instruments, fly without wings, and so much more. The pen in my hand took over me. I was addicted.I have to write. I need to write.

Without the ability to write, there is nothing. My need to write is like my need to breath. It doesn’t matter if the words I spill out is good or bad. Words need to be written out. They needn’t make sense, at least to no one but me, because they will make sense as I refined them day after day…


“Deep in the middle of the forest, in the silent shadows of the night, there is a

small hut. That hut is broken down and long since abandoned. In the dark, which

is dimly lit by the few strands of light shined by the moon that has managed to

leak through the thick layers of branches and leaves, there are three moving

shadows. These three shadows are heading for the broken down hut. These

shadows are of three weird well-respected people around these parts

of the land. One’s a renowned doctor, well … sort of. A healer is a better

description of what he does. The other’s a skillful and brilliant captain of the

imperial army. The third member of this night vigilante party’s a well-studied

reclusive scholar. They are as famous as they are odd…” ==> (read more see Novel 1)


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