snoo7

Force was the head of the war cabinet. The battle against certain bewitchment had never been so predictable. Perhaps his youngest son had been right not to give up the muddled and hectic imagination. The same old battleplan was recited. For over 300 years as the record shows. It was a new plan as it was still considered and there was suspicion that a hidden ghost of imagination had been involved somewhere in its conception. Yet to speak against the Status Quo would not be tolerated.

Those that tried were excluded. They had to renounce new ideas for the old ones � even if the old one�s weren�t working. The battleroom was full of dying men. It wore people down thin. The whole arched chamber was designed to spot intelligence and diffuse it. All seemed relaxed, but despite the unconvincing shell, beneath it demons boxed. Each punch was exchanged behind the walls where only a few who dared to peep could see it really. Yet, from outside, it was clear who was winning.

The intelligence had a good argument. After 300 years their plan was failing. The enemy was wise to it. No one dared to consult their imagination who laid frustratingly in prison far away. One that could easily be opened as they had the power to release their own soldier . Everyone, at one time or other crept near, but no one was brave enough to defy tradition and the old plan had wasted many lives. The reason behind this passage of throwing bundles of ignorance at a old problem laid in the great hall itself.

Beyond a stony picture there was a cup. A sparking one that glinted great power. On it were imprinted the words �don�t change�. This had been one of the artefacts soiled from miles away. Another time and it was considered sacred. This may be seen like a poor reason and it was in itself. But the children were separated from their imagination at a very early age. So to them it didn�t feel strange. Or loose. But all the ideas imposed on them were true and it was easier to live with them than without the lifeless blanket that hid their individualdon. Puddles had secretly found his imagination irresistible.

That was because, in his 25th year he had still only begun the transit to acceptance in accordance with the narrow beliefs. The predictable cycle that had worn down fertile trees to stumps that always expected to be. Puddles, hastily, one night in the dark unlocked his imagination from the cell where they were kept.

It had been at the end of his 25th Birthday. All the traditional pomp of royalhood had been summoned. This comprised of 13 orange trees with ribbons of the same, light turquoise colour. These formed the barriers of the battleground, where in suits of armour, traditional hand to hand combat was conducted in the honour of the King. No one asked. No one questioned.