Absurd. Pointless. Meaningless.
This is the result of having nothing better to do, having lost you imagination on schoolwork, and feeling, desperately for some reason, that you have to start a story. Of any kind.
I've only written the prologue. Enjoy.
"He's dead" Samson stated.
"Looks like it" Travis agreed monotonously.
Samson, a sharp-eyed man in his mid thirties and clad in a torn and ragged poncho, was standing barefoot on a grassy mound, stroking his beard and looking at the body.Travis, a seven foot, smartly dressed pilgrim with a small, multicoloured rucksack, was adjusting his glasses, in order to look better, with one hand, shielding himself from the sunlight, in order to look perfectly, with the other, and with the eyes themselves, he also was looking at the body.
The body was a fox, dressed oddly like a town crier. It was lying, crumpled on the ground, a large bell between its jaws.
"It was a rather odd couple of minutes" commented Travis. It was a monotonous comment.
"You got that right" agreed Samson.
"Well done on chasing him though." Travis said, in a monotonous tone.
"Well, you know..." Samson replied proudly.
"The jumping was a tad futile though" monotonised Travis.
"Well, you know..." Samson replied sadly.
"..." the fox added silently. The other two listened. The wind joined in a bit.
Eventually Travis looked up. The horizon was bleak, empty, and made a continous and straight circle around the two men. The moor was dark, green and dotted with the occasional hillock. The sky was somewhere behind all those clouds.
"I've never understood why pirates want to chase horizons" Travis commented, "horizons look so lonely to me"
Samson shrugged. "Pirates are crazy."
* * *
Have you ever faced death? To taste the emptiness, the hollow eternity on the tip of your tongue, and then have to be slammed into it by a couple of morons? No?
Well then, you haven't experienced what I have experienced. I have experienced the very recesses of your horribly flawed souls, and found beauty. I have laughed in the face of cruelty thirty seven times, and felt nothing but the satisfaction of bravery and victory.
My name is Sanctimonia. But you will hear none of my story, because my story actually means something.
And what is the point of meaning, when you're dead?
Talking of death, let's start at the end.