Time Travel with FuzzBuck Fuzz.
Before I go any further I'll point out now that this has nothing to do with games (well ok, maybe a little).
On Halloween night all mimsy with the witches dust I was tempted into tripping the light fantastic down a long corridor, a myriad of corridors suspended in space at once both translucent and transparent. I marveled at the majesty of creation in every direction, galaxies birthing, expiring and breathing cosmic eons. Never silent, never still. I realised that this was nothing extraordinary, the background we live our lives in utter ignorance of, but this moment was special.
There were doors in the walls.
Doors in the ceilings and doors in the floors. Trap doors, safety doors, wooden doors, metal doors, stone doors. Doors made from bone and doors made from fear. All manner of doors could be seen here. Each one had a number with style that matched it. "Pick a door." said a voice when I'd not nearly scratched it. Too much choice! I rushed and harried at speeds faster than light as I searched for the door that I knew would be right. 2119 wanted to be picked, but something was wrong so onwards I tripped. My guide wandered faster always ahead ...MY GUIDE!?... I stared at the laughter that grew slightly higher. My guide was fire. An airlock was found, was opened and entered. A dial turned at random and numbers descended.
Beclogged and betogged and alone in the city went young master Barlow heading North with a ditty. Heading North with a passion that always would lead him although having no food he knew not who would feed him. Ten years fly by fast till we see him again. Ten years spent at sea; he's a Freeman become. A night spent aloft in a Portsmouth Tavern and Northbound again he walks with his passion. Well his passion he found in a mid country town so he rested from walking and got down to talking of love. Farming the land for the lord of his burrough, old John settled down, that roguish old bugger. Ten years gone again and he's still at the farm, though he's thinking of leaving for his true love has gone. His eyes look once more to the North in the sky and again sets out walking always asking it why. Ten years this time walking ever Northwards he goes, through the dark brooding mountains that challenge his soul. Through the snows and the wilds and the merciless crows ever Northwards he walks never stumbles or falters. Upon reaching the ocean and feeling the motion of waves; he turns round to Southwards and grins at the mountains to brave. Ten years racing Southbound to Portsmouth returned, to work on the dockside his living he earned. I ask for a snippet, a word of advice, "It's cold in the North." came the wry seadog's spice.
Well, I did say it had nothing to do with games, didn't I? No, it wasn't some crazy drugged-up hallucination, but a past-life hypnosis experience, a subject I've always found fascinating and I do think counts as "maybe a little" to do with them (although that's a 1,200 word article in it's own right) thrown together with a little creative writing. It's experimental so I'm extremely interested in what anybody & everybody makes of it.