Hem sat alone in a Gilba Gilba teahouse writing in his weird journal of dreams and desires. It contained nothing but those and every day he opened it he considered dropping it into the Ravin’ River without a second glance. That dramatic gesture would certainly make an impact of some sort! Or so he imagined. He couldn’t be sure as he would never perform the feat.

What was in this Journal of Dreams and Desires? Not sure as we’re taking this one sentence at a time here. Hem liked to sketch maps and legends; maps of faraway lands and mystical locations of mystery. Blom’s stories of the Island Realm had fired his imagination into bursts of colors to rival the Autumn trees that were swaying with a gentleness outside the teahouse. This teahouse requires a name so henceforth it shall be called Blarder’s Fine Teas & Exotic Imports.

“Can I getcha anything, lad?” Blarder asked as she glided over to attend to her customer (Hem).

“Uh no uh,” stumbled Hem like an absolute LOSER as he tried to answer Blarder. She was a waif-like elven woman who dressed like an elven queen, if such a race existed (Hem was sure they did not but he could be convinced otherwise by simply looking at Blarder). Her hair was long and tan, eyes like round white moons, wearing a skirt that dropped down to tall brown boots.

Blarder gazed at him with a mixture of expectation and amusement. “You let me know if you do require anything of substance, lad.” She turned soundlessly away and disappeared behind the teahouse prep room where ALL the tea is prepped. She had tea to prep and Hem had to figure out what in the WORLD was in this journal! DREAMS AND DESIRES!

One o’ these days I aim to find myself on the opposite side o’ this continent writin’ to my ma and da about the adventures I found for myself between here and there. Those memories out there are waitin’ for me to make ‘em and I can’t be fakin’ this country accent any longer than necessary, tryin’ to be consistent with the g-droppin’ and odd sorta syntax.

Hem liked writing things like that. It made him feel like he was in control of his actions and his destinies, which in some way he was but in another way he wasn’t. His patience would pay off in the end o’ course but a lad o’ Hem’s age couldn’t exactly see that. But in his later years he would indeed be sittin’ in a teahouse (on the opposite side o’ the continent no less) makin’ reflections of just this sorta nature, wonderin’ what was in that Journal of Dreams and Desires and decidin’ it didn’t quite matter because he was out there in the world makin’ ‘em come true.