1 I N T R O : i don't belong

*Mauvery - Mid 18th Century*

"Inspiration gives you the ability to believe in something that can never be believed in reality."

That's the saying my grandfather always said when having a writer's block.

That's the saying my grandfather always told me when things get tough in life.

That's the saying that is now imprinted on his very grave.

"Jenipher Locusts," it reads. "Born on the first of January of the late seventeenth century and died on the first of January of the mid eighteenth century."

Pappy Fepher was only seventy-one when he passed.

No one but I stand before his grave.

No one but I put flowers on his coffin.

No one but his granddaughter mourns his death.

"A faithful servant of God and a renowned author of this century," the gravestone continued, piling lies upon lies on Pappy Fepher's grave— lies in which my grandfather wrote, himself. "May he rest in peace."

May he be damned for all I care.

Anyone of Pappy's inner circle knows all the words written on his grave are all a load of shit that came from that delusional failure of an author.

Pappy lived in a fantasy too big for him to handle.

Unfortunately, his delusions led to his very death.

Pappy was neither a servant of the Lord for I, myself, saw him praise the devil and prayed upon his name to exchange his soul for fame and wealth. He was never the choir-boy type either and hardly ever attended Sunday sermons.

However, the one lie that enrages me the most is the lie upon which his grave so boldly displays for anyone passing by to see.

1679-1750.

Those are the dates which, supposedly, my grandfather was born and died in.

When in truth, that man never existed in this time.

And neither did I.

Yet, here we are, one underneath the Earth while the other standing directly upon him.

I do not belong in this century and neither do I have a purpose in staying here. It was Pappy who wished to return to the past for his present was as a failure as his present in this century.

Now that he's gone, I am free to return to my time.

But now that he's dead, the knowledge of knowing how to get back home is buried along with him.

Seven feet below my own.