Don't know what FTCTW is? Click Here to join the revolution. This installment of FTCTW's author is Kyle Jones.

Author's Comments: I thought this piece would be an appropriate way to kick off FTCTW. I wrote Mesuphial after having read some kind of classic "observation-style" novel in English class (maybe Red Badge of Courage?), and the influence is obvious. I think I was in the seventh grade which would mean I was either twelve or thirteen-- at least twenty years ago. It's a classic coming of age tale of a boy, a dream, and a Dad who won't wake up.

Interesting trivia: this story was originally written on a Commodore 64 and printed on an Epson dot matrix printer. Several years later we got a sophisticated "word processor"-- little more than a screen, a touch of memory, a keyboard and an embedded typewriter. I've lost the dot matrix printing, but the original word processor version (maybe 15 years old) can be seen here. As you can see, I've not modified the story in any way, except to fix spelling and punctuation errors.

Mesuphial: By Kyle

So I sat there, calmly wondering what to write. The blank white paper sat in front of me, it mocked me. My capped pen lay limply in my hand. I was seated in our snug, but not uncomfortable basement. In specific, I sat in the computer/game room. My Dad's bedroom door was ajar in front of me. I knew if I happened to peer inside, I would find him dozing off, with the television still on.

My brother, Mike, sat in the sturdy, wooden chair that faced the computer. He was slowly pecking out another outstanding story of his.

The stairs lay off to my right. the door there was open, but I didn't expect anyone to saunter through it until the "exciting" prime time series was over on our giant screen television upstairs.

Even farther off to my right, past the frequently used Olympia weights, was the door to the laundry room. The door there was open and hot, sticky steam was being admitted via the dryer.

Beyond that was the garage door. It was securely shut and locked. As always.

I, myself, lay on the soft, and somehow scratchy carpet. Capped pen still in hand. The ancient smell of dryer steam filled my nose.

The gum I was chewing was tasteless. I was only chewing from habit. There was a sleight chill in the air, as there always is in the basement, no matter what season. My brother's monotones pecking at the keyboard eventually turned to a dull sound, one that I hardly noticed. It mingled with the narrator speaking from my father's TV. It was some nature show.

I could hear my father's heavy breathing from the other room, with an occasional cough. This signalled to me that he was still snoozing.

Other sounds included my own annoying, snapping gum, with the dull roar of the dryer with an occasional raging buzz. Outside, night had finally settled on my small section of the earth, like a blanket covering me but somehow stealing my warmth.

I was humming a child's song while I tried to devise some crafty topic to write about. All my ideas royally stunk. Hamsters, I thought, no. Radioactive hamsters? Still no. Potatos? Too boring. Radioactive potatoes? Too weird. A boy scout murdering church choir? Too gross. How about an American Indian murdering boy scout choir? Still too gross.

These were the chain of thoughts that railroaded through my mind as I blankly stared at the unblemished paper. Just then I started to hear a loud, increasing thunder-like noise. I ignored it, thinking of it to be a jet or some other large plane.

I knew what it was as the mailed horseman trampled through my wall.

Plaster shards flew everywhere. White dust shot up from the aging wall. I heard a faint "What the hell!" from my father, who I knew was still sleeping, thinking this to be all just a meaningless dream. I also heard the stereotypical trouble clamor from from upstairs. It's what you always see in the movies whenever a disaster strikes. The dust finally settled and I looked over to see my brother frozen with fear. His eyes were wide and full of fear as he stared at the creation next to me.

I peered over, being naturally curious as to what just put a natural wind tunnel in my house. I was awe-struck. It was a fully armored man on a massive horse. The man, if he had been standing, was probably six foot two. I couldn't tell how muscular he was through the armor, but I guessed one had to be pretty well built to ride around in a giant suit of mail.

His armor glittered brightly in the dim light of my house. The visor on his helmet was up and I could see two wide, proud, gray eyes surrounding a modest nose. His nose was sitting on a bushy brown mustache. I couldn't see any other part of his face.

His armor carried his coat-of-arms proudly, a rams head with a sword standing vertically behind it. His horse was towering in comparison to me, it was a light gray. The horse also glittered dimly, it did so from the thin sheen of sweat it carried. It was saddled and blanketed with a rug that also carried the knight's coat-of-arms.

I looked outside, through the hole, to see another horse, this one riderless. It stood tall and wore the same brand of saddle and blanket as the knight's horse. The knight cleared his throat and spoke in a deep, powerful, trumpeting voice. "Come with me Mesuphial!" he roared as he motioned to me.

Mesuphial!?! But my name is Kyle!

"Come with me," he repeated in his booming voice. "And I will show you a real life.

"I need you for your artistic ability. Since God did not bestow me with the journalistic ability you received, I will need you to write of my heroic deeds!"

Just then my mother and younger brother came through the door from the stairs. They were also paralyzed with fear.

"Yes," the knight resumed. "You are to write of my heroic deeds, my slaying of beasts, and my eradicating evil from the land! Yes, come with me, Mesuphial, and I will assuredly give you a fulfilling life. You will love it. You will become a man, even a knight some day. Join me and live life to its fullest." His tone gradually increased as he spoke.

It didn't take me long to make up my mind. I kissed my family goodbye (except my dad, I didn't want to wake him). They still wouldn't move. I didn't bother with packing. I figured my clothes would be useless where I was going. I saddled into my horse as the knight was exiting through his ungraceful hole. As we galloped off into the chill moonlight, I wondered softly if I should have last brought my jacket. Where we were going, though, it was never cold.