Like all stories about mystical beings and warriors and dragons and all that fantasy whatnot, this one begins with an ordinary child in an ordinary town on an ordinary day.

But this is no ordinary fantasy. This one is a testimony from the mouth of a man in a real city on our actual Earth, and no other. I've recalled this story many a time ever since its occurrence over 3 years ago. Some call me insane. Others say I'm a visionary. Still others think I speak only the truth. The latter ones are correct. They saw it all.

The story begins on October 22, 2008. A glorious Wednesday, with not-so-glorious weather. The clouds were heavy on this mid-autumn afternoon in Newport Beach, CA. School had just let out, so all that was left to do was walk back home to my city-borderline home and submerge myself in the arts, as I always do when I get home.

I guess now would be a proper time to properly introduce myself. I am Kyle Staunton, age 17. I live in a normal home, attend a normal high school, and am just fine with all of it. I like television, adore video games, and absolutely love to read. Some say my overactive imagination tends to get the best of me. But let me tell you, this time... it would get the best of everyone.

My house almost directly borders a university. I swear, I've seen one of those students staring at me from their dorm room as I walk down Jamboree Road. I walk down that road frequently. It helps me clear my head.

But today, my head wanted to be filled rather than cleared. I knew there was only one place I could go to feed that hunger...

"Kyle, is that you?"
"Yes, mom. I'm home."
"Okay. Dinner's in 30, and don't give me any excuses to delay it today. We're all hungry."
This was not what my head wanted to feed on.
"I'll be in my room."
"Set your alarm."

I shut the door behind me as I stepped into my bedroom. On my bed was a book. A dusty old tome full of short stories, poems, and novels, all written by the Staunton men before me: my father, his father, and so on, back to the early eighteenth century, when my forefather, Dale Staunton, christened the blank notebook of 10,000 pages with its first written word, its first page, its first short story. All the works in the Staunton literary collection are fiction, and were either inspired by popular writing styles of the time, the author's life and experiences, or wild fantasies. No work in the tome was, is, or will ever be published. It is a sacred and private affair to the family.

Once a young Staunton has found his story, he writes it in the huge notebook, never to be seen by the eyes of outsiders. But this is not that story. I haven't decided what to write in there yet.

I laid down on the bed and opened the hardbound book with the many scribbles and scripts inside it to page 2071, and picked up where I left off reading my grandfather's first novel. I had vowed to myself that I would read every story in the huge book before even considering writing my own. So far, the vow had held I read a work of fiction, I envelop myself in it. The world around me dissolves, and the world in my mind becomes the only thing I hear, see, touch... this is why I needed the alarm clock to warn me that my time was up.

And soon enough, it rang, signaling dinnertime.

Now, before I continue, I must make it clear that what happened beginning that night was not the result of me being submerged in my imagination. On the contrary. What happened was a physical outburst of my imagination.

After dinner, I decided to turn in early. I stared at the Japanese prints hanging on the ceiling for a few minutes; their colors always stood out as a form of art in itself to me. And then, I took out my Game Boy and played it. But just for a few minutes, because the wind had invaded my room. The chill brought a thought to my head:

This game... it has no realism. But it was not me thinking. Something in the wind had stimulated me.
I implore you... think about it. My own mind began to continue the conversation with the wind.
So I thought... or so I thought I thought. And from my thought came a thought:
It's true! The game... the story... it's so idealistic! So repetitive! Just like my daily routine... I sank. If we could cross paths... what drama would ensue. Real, uncut, passionate, unusual... drama.

But I knew that it could never happen. Bending reality is impossible...
Is it, now? The wind talking again.

I decided to quit and retire to my slumber. I had plans to arrange in my head, and matters to prepare. As I continued to interpret more and more of my endless though, I slipped deeper, and deeper, until eventually, at 9:15 PM that night, I began the most perfect sleep that I have slept so far in my life.

I did not dream that night. All I saw in my mind was a flash of white light at 3:08 AM.