The NIx

 Born in the land of Nodnot, Apollo Stark was a daydreamer of a child who loved nothing more than spending his days having crazy adventures in the magical and fertile realm of the mind, for there, he could escape Tickety-boo which was his inappropriately named family home.

  His parents were a self-absorbed pair who showed little interest in his abilities or education and seemingly favoured the questionable hippy notion of nature over nurture. So having dreamt all day, by night, under his bedsheets, with only a weak torch to read by, Apollo’s bed became an exciting boat which drifted far out to sea. Aboard it, at his feet,  he conjured all he needed to survive the wild storms which raged around him and set out to explore the unchartered quarters of imagination. He sailed to the land of the chalkybore and beyond, searching for answers to questions he hadn’t even thought of, and returned each morning, his head buzzing with fresh tales he wished he could tell his parents if only they would listen, but they never did.

  Frustrated by their behaviour, and on the advice of a friendly witch who lived at Jiggery-Pokery Cottage, which was situated halfway between shouting distance and a whisper on the wind, Apollo began to write, for the witch, being the only person to listen to him, said that one day people might want to read about his life and phantasmagorical adventures.

  Apollo began by recording his daily experiences in a diary he named Little Red. Little Red was a Christmas gift from his beloved Aunty Sandra and unbeknown to Apollo at the time, would the catalyst for him becoming an author. Putting its blank pages to good use, Apollo’s pen became its voice. Apollo told Little Red everything about how his life was in a naive, black, inky scrawl and Little Red absorbed each word, absorbing all that Apollo had to say. The diary never judged him and was always there when Apollo needed it, and Apollo filled it to brimming with his trials, tribulations and tales. But diaries being diaries, there is only so much they can recall before their pages run out. Being full, Apollo retired Little Red to a box under his bed and finding a replacement book to write in, promised Little Red he would visit him occasionally. But the diary wasn’t safe there. Little Red went missing. Who abducted the little book? Apollo suspected his parents but was unable to prove it. After all, who else would wish his observations, recollections and thoughts to remain unseen?

  Heartbroken at the loss, and with Little Red’s predecessor Big Red in toe, (who was more a notebook for scribbling down story ideas than a diary), Apollo, being slightly more grownupish, began to study weirdo science at Ticklebrain Adversity College in Babelsome. He became the alpha of the master debating team, and his rambling thesis on the behaviour of quarks in a quantum physiological environment under the influence of a flatulent elephant with a nervous disposition, led to him graduating with full Goners. Taking his doctor-hated degree, Apollo decided to make good use of it as toilet paper.

  Since then, Apollo has turned his hand to many different roles in order to earn a crust whilst exploring the other worlds and continuing to write, one such job being a fire breather.

  “People generally think of fire breathing as being the exclusive occupation of dragons,” he remarked, adding. “But the dragons I spoke to were more than happy to show me their tricks and even taught me how to make questing torches, which they assured me I would need along my travels.”

  On another journey he met a spirit of the woods, and it gave him a magical staff to watch over him.

  “Cyclops guides me along the path I travel,” Apollo said, proudly showing me his highly polished stick. “I couldn’t ask for a better companion to walk with.”

  Now, being the future, unless you’re personally experiencing a temporal disturbance, Apollo has written and published several books relating to the characters he’s met on his travels, but his early writing continues to remain unread. He keeps it hidden in a dusty leather case on the top of his wardrobe, the hand inked and illustrated pages waiting, like buried treasure to be discovered.