Chapter 1: Fiction

Once upon a time where there was no time there was no man named Frank Li. And Frank Li was not real anywhere else but real there. However he never was in a coma and he never came out of one. He never had a mother or a father and no family was around to disapprove or approve of him. He didn't live anywhere for there were no universes, not stars, no planets, no earth, no damnable countries no good countries, no societies, no psychopaths, no sane people, no insane people, no devils, no demons, no Angels, no Son of God, no Holy Spirit, and Frank, his writer and his writer's Bother and their Father never existed, there was nothing not even a period at the beginning on a blank page, there was no page, there was no concept, there was no idea for a story. There was no God.

“I am!” Frank said, but there was no one there besides him. 'Who am I talking to?' he thought and never knew before he could talk or think which of course he couldn't have and he knew it. “I must be in fiction now,” he said, “Nothing is real here! It is all a slight of hand, a trick of my writer's mind he has skillfully decided to share with bored readers who might prefer fiction. But what is really there is a bunch of symbols on what was a blank page that are just electronically managed shadows and light spots on a screen of a laptop his only tools. “My God,” Frank said, “I hope my story is at least entertaining, realizing he had no god or God at the nonexistent time, or else his writer would have to try again to create something they can believe, believe so strongly they can hear it, believe so strongly they can see it, taste it, feel it or even smell it. And Frank was born neither good nor bad, neither sane, nor insane, neither totally good, nor a psychopath whether Arab and religious or not. And it pleased his writer, but Frank was ambivalent for he didn't know what a writer of this kind of fiction was and the readers had never encountered a story like it before. It was creative fiction and no lie at all, but there was no truth there either for there was no God to create truth and no one to lie for that would have been truth where there was nothing else.

And out of the bright, white, background of the blank page first Frank emerged, but who was Frank? Nobody knew, for there was no one else there. Was he alive or dead, spirit or flesh or even known or unknown? The readers don't know. The writer doesn't know. And so Frank doesn't either for he had left truth behind and was not even a character in a bad or good novel, a part of a trilogy or an entire series. He was virtually nonexistent even in the story and it was already in the third chapter. And truth came to end.

And Frank emerged from the shadows like light from a far place that is only seen by those with better than normal eyesight and better than average sense and a purer spirit unlike any psychopaths that are real can see or understand, but try to use it to manipulate weak minded readers there was something real to know by adding fiction to fiction to make it seem scary or cause them to do real things based on what it truly is Arab or not. And unlike the truly good use of it that makes people feel safe and loving and kind. Everyone that loves fiction knows that no one that might ever be here may share anything with anyone without adding fiction to it of a kind others who are not fiction must at least add imagination to it to even see what is going on in it.

You who allow your mind to accept fiction know Frank Li well. He is in ever story ever written. He is like God who wrote the first real story except he never wrote a story in his entire being. He receives the thoughts of writers and becomes what they want him to be. And though he is all over the place in fiction books of all the writers God calls liars all over creation. Be careful with him. He is in so much trash out there like the first two books of this ridiculous trilogy, it is rarely entertaining anymore. Fiction is dying.

“I don't exist here either,” Frank said.

“Yes you do,” everyone who ever graced a page in fiction replied, “You are one of us, and we are here too, Frank.”

And Frank heard the din of all the voices that were ever written in all the voices they were written in throughout all of fiction and even Allah's voice written in Mohammed's voice was among them, but not God's voice. It was nowhere among them for He is real and cannot be fiction even when He is fictionally cast in some writer's misshapen, misunderstood manner when men lie which none of them can help but do, the poor things.

They so want to say something even anything that is even remotely true. If they ever saw anything true they wouldn't even know what it was and they would lie about what they thought about it anyway. They are not Holy and only the Holy Spirit can cause them to say any truth. Jesus of Nazareth was the only man who was not like us. And we cannot understand anything about Him if the Holy Spirit doesn't enlighten us about it, but even then we may only share the lies we imagine do the truth justice. It is a myth that we can share the truth with anyone about anything. The entire world that claims to be real and capable of telling the truth is only fiction and not at all what the enlightened knew at all but mere vain human attempts to retell it in human words that are incapable of it.

Then he said, “I am, Frank Li and I am not afraid of you for I love no one but my writer and the readers. My purpose is to be whatever I am in my writers' minds. May my writer this time be allowed to share it with you and the readers without the psychopathic readers out there attempting to ban it Islamic liars or any other kind of liar are just that what they are. They are what they are, but why they do this I don't understand. I am just whatever they claim I am in their show. There is nothing real to be learned from me. I am not now, I never was and never will be a part of any object lesson and anyone who thinks I am is wrong.

I am new for I never was before. You are not real either and there was a place in fiction when some of you were new and not mere copies of me in the mind of the less creative writers who copy characters for a lack of creative talent. Obviously all you have to do is watch TV and you can see an endless amount of that lack of creativity. It has all been done before and even the settings and themes have been repeated so many times even I would be tired of it if I had the ability. Writers nowadays must not be artists anymore, anymore than copy artists are artistes. Apparently talent has deserted our writers even in their so called reality shows. What a joke.”

One day I suppose you will lie about me and write your lies called nonfiction about me even. You liars will even claim you know me from what I write and what I wrote about, begone all you writers of fiction even that bad fiction you call nonfiction. I never knew you and you obviously never knew me. Who do you think I am? Be quiet once, just once for a little while and see if They will let you know anything you can't repeat about me you don't have to lie about to tell anyone it even happened. If they do, I hope you will dare to love me. But as it is I never knew any of you and you never knew anything of me. I was among you and you did not know you. You didn't even know I was there. You are nothing to me. I must be insane to write even fiction to you.

I give you Frank Li. You know him, well. If you have read the first two books of this trilogy you know what I mean. Is it not all fiction?