|Paint By Numbers
Author: Any59.0 PM
Hello, and I will be your guide. I live on the streets, but I am not homeless and these streets are very lively. Please sit awile, my story won't take long to tell.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Humor/Friendship - Chapters: 2 - Words: 1,052 - Reviews: 4 - Favs: 1 - Follows: 1 - Updated: 02-24-13 - Published: 02-01-13 - id: 3097433
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Hello! And this is my new series, 'Paint by Numbers'! Sorry that I had to end my other stories, they were just…the corpse on the back of Teig O'Keine (spelling? Haven't read it in a while and forgot how his name is spelled). I hope you enjoy it, I hope to make a sequel.
Hello, and I am Touchstone. I live in a small town which is part of a larger city, though I know the name of neither. To me this is just 'Town'. Anything above is just 'a bit farther in'. Anything to the left or right is just 'another town'. My lack of geographic knowledge being said, I suppose you're wondering why I'm here. No? Alright, then, I'll tell you. Anyways…wait, some of you said yes? Okay then, I'll tell you about the long, laborious task that my parents had to partake in while raising me from one suckling form to another.
Just kidding. I wouldn't bother you with that anyways. But how I did get here is just about a mystery. I was obviously born, my sepia soul sold into creative form, then taking the shape of a human. But between my first breath of air and my first time seeing sunlight, I am completely unknown. Gone. Nothing. Done. I just woke up here, in this town, like the road spit me up.
And about my name. Well…I don't really know, considering that however it was created was before my awoken time. But people call me Touchstone. I guess it could be that I supposedly had a habit of playing with small, manageable stones and slip-through-your-fingers pebbles. Or it could be that I took a few spills deeper into the city where they have cobbles in the ground and that when I came up people would remark that I 'touched the stones, you fool!'.
I suppose that by now none of you care about my story. I'm just another piece of bad literature. And that is true, for I can neither read nor write. But I feel that one day someone WILL ask, and I figure that I should get it straight now, before it is too late and I remember nothing. I doubt that anyone will stop to listen to an old fool's story, when I'm 30 or so, and it is even less unlikely that anyone would care about what a 12 year olds story is. At least, I think I'm 12.
None of this matters, and you should feel relieved, because my life is uneventful. I'm just some jester sitting on the street jumping around hoping others will take pity and throw me a bone. But, then again, perhaps you care.