A Future Foreword

I stared gloomily into my coffee, willing it to tell me the secrets of the universe. Maybe, I thought, if I stare long enough, it would reveal everything. The truth about God, the cosmos, the afterlife... surely there was nothing coffee didn't know. It started each day. It held the keys to caffeine and productivity. Drinking it was a ritual, a prayer, a sign of devotion to the Gods of the Morning. And I prayed desperately, hoping, wishing, willing my beverage to speak and tell me those words I longed to hear.

Unfortunately, my coffee did not answer. It merely sat, in the cup, and waited for me to drink it. The only thing that was going to change was the temperature.

I sighed. Writer's block was a curse from the gods, and I'd had it for a while. My heroes weren't heroic, my wise teachers lost their counsel, and my usual spunky sidekick character forgot how to be witty. It had been so long since I'd put words on a paper, I almost forgot how to write.

It was that devastation, that desolation, that led me to sit here with a pad of paper, a pen, and a cup of coffee. I was out of ideas, out of patience, and out of time. All I had left to do was wait for inspiration to strike. And honestly, I didn't think it would, I just wanted to be ready in case it did.

"More?" A homely-looking woman holding a carafe had stopped at my table. I'd been too absorbed in my own thoughts to see her, and I smiled apologetically. She didn't respond. I wasn't sure if she didn't notice, or didn't care. Either way, more coffee sounded wonderful.

"Yes, please." As I held my cup up for a refill, I noticed the printed logo underneath the base. Perhaps I could do something with that? The history of teacups? A study of tea leaves? A summary of the dark spice trade, and how it ultimately led to the fight for American independence? The last one made me shudder. That sounds awful, I told myself. Better wait for inspiration instead.

The waitress wandered off to the next table, and I looked around the room. A family with two smaller children had settled into the far corner, but I could hear them fighting all the way over here. Apparently their daughter had a problem with her french fries: her brother was eating them all. While she complained of unfairness, he devoured most of her serving. The irony was amazing, and I made a mental note to use it if I ever wrote again.

Next to them sat an older couple, a pair who had clearly seen a number of years and experiences. I wondered what their stories would be. Was he in the military? Did she serve in the peace corps? Was their love affair kept secret, hidden from those who could never understand? I shook my head. Probably not. That didn't sound like anything that happened in real life.

The only other patrons were a younger pair, hidden in headphones, sitting by the window. Their open books and pained expressions told me that they were probably studying. Periodically their stillness was broken by one or the other turning a page. As I watched, I noticed the girl glance shyly at the boy. She quickly ducked her head as he looked up, and they both returned to stillness. I wondered how long she'd loved him, and if she was even ready to call it love.

But that was it. Nobody else circulated the room, no random decorations on the wall jumped out and captured my attention. No lightning bolts of inspiration struck from the sky. No Gods of the Morning answered my prayer, and my coffee continued to sit silent. In fact, given the lack of divine intervention, it was becoming slightly easier to believe that I actually had been cursed.

I sighed again, and looked down at my blank notepad. I wondered who I'd offended in the cosmos. What could I have done to deserve such silence? Who had stolen my voice and left me speechless? And what could I do to get it back?

If I had to guess, it would probably end up being some kind of journey. After all, isn't that what reluctant heroes do? Perhaps I'd travel miles and miles, over land and sea, and reach a place beyond boats and trains and planes. There, I'd finally learn what disease I have, and understand how to make it end. It would be an impossible task, but I'd resign myself to it. Do or die, I would see it through.

Before I left, I'd probably find a companion with an unusual gift. We might hate each other at first, but learn to grudgingly tolerate the other person. Before the last pages, we'll be inseparable: best friends until the bitter end. I'll weep when they cast themselves into the flames, sacrificing their life so that my storytelling voice can return. And I'll think of them every time I pick up a pen, wishing fervently that I'll see them again, one day. Perhaps in the next book, I will.

Or I would, if it actually ever happened. But the idea was a good one, and it made me smile. It would be quite an adventure, I thought as I sipped my coffee. Travel, adventure, gods, friends, defeating evil... it all had a nice ring to it. It would be such a good story.

Suddenly, it dawned on me. The heroic journey, the adventure, the friendship and sacrifice- that was the story! My bolt of inspiration, my gift from the gods had arrived! I lunged for my pencil and began scribbling things down. Names and locations bubbled to the surface. Pictures and actions, happiness and terrible times all came to light at once. And finally- FINALLY- after so many years of writer's block, I finally knew where to begin.

And that, dear friends, is the story of this book. I truly believe that it is the result of quiet inspiration, and I'm glad you're here to enjoy it with me. I only have one request before we begin the reading: please keep all questions until the end, so everyone can hear the words. And now, if you're ready, we'll begin with Chapter 1...