If I told you that everything in my imagination happens, you wouldnít believe me. I suspect that, at best, you would be sceptical about my claims, worst, youíd probably take me for the type of nut that often frequents my over creative head.

Now, I can understand and respect your view point, it would probably be the perspective of any right thinking adult, but you see, thatís because you donít observe the world through my eyes.

It all started when I was about four. I always liked to make up stories, still do, and most children of that age tend to find refuge in the general babbling about nothing, regurgitating the events that they have observed over their small lifetime, play acting things beyond their comprehension. However, I would tell my tales directly to my teddy bears and things. The more toys that I could get together for an impromptu story telling, the better.

This particular day I told them a very vivid tale about the quest of Sir Teddy to find the buried treasure from the caves of the fire-breathing dragon. How he was really a pathetic hero who never found the treasure but instead ending up burning to death in the cave.

The next morning, I woke to the news that Jimmy, the toddler next door, had managed to burn himself horribly by climbing inside the open fire and roasting like a marshmallow on a bonfire. He died the next day.

Over the years, many such incidents happened. Some I considered a lot, some I never gave a second thought. Nevertheless, when I look back on all the events that occurred during my childhood, they all had the same commonality; my imagination wished it to happen.

Iíve never fully understood how the process happens. I once was sure that all I had to do was think about something and it would happen, and overall, thatís true. However, thereís much more to it than that. I donít seem to be able to control what I think about. I know that sounds odd, but I start with an idea, and even if itís done with malicious intent, it spirals far out of my control. Itís as if someone is watching over me, adding fuel to the fire, stoking a warped mind.

There is a more disturbing side to it. People conjured up in my mind seem to materialise in reality. Now, you might think that Iím just remembering people that Iíve seen, or making some subconscious connection, a pre-emptive dťjŗ vu if you like. However, itís worse that that. Some of these people are not normal people. Some of them are down right hideous and evil.

I seem to see these strange people knocking around on the street. The more acceptable ones, the crazies, the people who sit next to you on an empty bus, follow you in the supermarket, theyíre all mine.

You generally donít get to see the other ones, and if you do, you generally donít get to see another day. I see them though. In my imagination and wandering the streets looking for whatever mischief, I can dream up for them.

Written Without Prejudice
written without prejudice
Stories to go to bed with
stories to go to bed with

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