The Inked  Quill; A Scribbler'sHaven

     In order to navigate the myriad of intricate trails decussating my interminable youth, indulging the intergalactic art of fantasy was a necessity. To fill the voids in my meager existence, my path to the prestigious goal of adulthood traversed vast galaxies of my own creation. In the beginning the birth of countless tales swathed in mystery and daring deeds survived only in my head, but the day came when I could do nothing less than take pen in hand and jot down the essence of my ramblings for other cosmic itinerants to witness.​

     The end came with all the finesse of a super nova. In a breath my universe collapsed into oblivion. Exotic worlds crumbled and dashing heroes evaporated like wisps of vapor; the culprit, wrong friends coupled with bad decisions. For thirty years the words did not flow. In early February of 2000 my path crossed that of an acquaintance from the waning days of my youth; one who also delved in the world of poetic words. This reunion birthed two new poems and the need to search out others of like thoughts. A short time later another from past days emerged from the vastness of the internet. The impartation of pleasure recollected from tidbits of my long ago scribbling’s rekindled embers that unbeknownst to me, still smoldered in my subconscious. A spark was ignited and forgotten tales long buried in the deepest, darkest recesses of my being began a slow journey to remembrance. Muse reborn.​

     I make no claim that my writings shall bestow entertainment upon any that cast an eye upon them. On the other hand, if but a single person finds a morsel of pleasure within the squiggles left by my hand; my endeavors have not been for naught.

 

      In the beginning—after the rebirth of my wish to expound upon those thoughts roaming about in the deep recesses of my vivid imagination—I traveled an assortment of paths crisscrossing the internet. In those early days I knew little about the vast store of knowledge at my disposal. While learning how, and where, to acquire said information I toddled through copious communities filled with strangers I had, and never would meet nose to nose. Even so friendships were birthed and bonds formed. From time to time a fellow traveler lurking inside those hollow halls met with pain, heartache, or loss. It was during those times I felt compelled to reach out in some manner that might bring forth a smile—a grin would suffice—and make one person’s day a little brighter. My way of doing such was posting little ditties pertaining to each individual’s situation. These miniscule offerings brought forth a flood of heartfelt thanks from friends and strangers alike who found solace in my words of rhyme. Those humble beginnings birthed a poem I dubbed, Words. Over time the first two lines have become my aphorism that I might remember, I am but me, a Greater One guides my hand.

 

                                                                                                              I have no words of wisdom,

                                                                                                         Only thoughts, hope, and dreams.

 

     One day I decided to try something different. I started a short story with characters contrived from the community members. At first I wasn’t too sure how they would take to my creativity. To my relief they wanted more. Words created scenes, then a chapter. More urging led to new characters, more chapters, and in the end a novel was created. It was rough and unpolished, but the idea has not died. Today I still get it out for edits and rewrites. Portions of it have been displayed on the web in a couple of writing communities for the perceptions of other writers. It has received positive feedback, and the desire to read more with every new edit. One day I hope to see it printed and bound between decorated covers displaying its title and my moniker.

     A dreamer you say. Yes, I quite agree, a dreamer I am, always have been. My stories are birthed by dreams during hours of wakefulness, or at times of idleness standing in the checkout line, even at work. In reality there is never a time my brain is idle, or focused on one simple task. A story is forever brewing inside my head. I don’t always write them down, but I do remember the important thoughts for one day I may take pen in hand and jot down a combination of many into the one.

     These are the ramblings of me, Nick Fraysher Sr. They may be only that, but they may be just the thing to entertain some unsuspecting passerby. Be that the case, my time has been well spent.

 

     For now I say adieu my friend.