The story of myself in brief is the following:

Once upon a time there was a young boy who wanted nothing more than to create something. As a child he would invent games for himself, his brother and his friends to play. Some of them were fun. Others not so much. When he wasn't doing this he would scribble images on paper with captions in his young English or build things out of stackable blocks. Needless to say he was imaginative.

As he grew older he forgot about these things being lost in his studies. He did start a new hobby though. An old man from the Far East ran a different kind of school just a few blocks away. This man taught the art of combat with one's hands feet and with the blade. He was a wise old man, who despite being a cripple was fiercely fast with hands like lightning.

This wise old man and his disciples taught the young boy much about life and respect and of course how to defend himself if he should ever have need of such skills. It made him grow confident in himself and stronger. It was a place the boy loved very much and misses even to this day.

During the years the boy spent studying at school and learning life lessons from his wise old master the young boy remembered the stories and games he used to make up as a child. Then one day he had a dream. In his dream the Lord came to him and said, "boy, write me a story." The young boy felt something stir deep within himself. For some reason it felt like he'd known all along that he was meant to write a story, perhaps even an important story to someone.

The young boy rose up the next morning and tried to think of what the Lord had wanted him to write about. He sat through his classes that day and scribbled away on paper, for he liked also to draw things when his mind wandered. On this particular morning he was drawing on a piece of paper and got tired of what he was drawing and crumpled the paper up and pushed it to the corner of his desk.

He continued to listen to the lectures, but eventually that ball of paper caught his eye again. It looked like something to him. Sort of like a pill bug curled up on itself. So he drew another picture of what that ball of paper resembled and then when he looked at what he had drawn he knew exactly what to write about. How a drawing of a pill bug monster with a gun and a shield leads to what follows is unknown for that creature makes no appearance in the story the boy writes, but it is the spark that did begin the adventure.

So the boy went home and purchased a large writing book and began penning the words that came to his mind. He began to write of the distant future in a time where men fight for their lives against a threat that is greater than anything they have ever faced in our time. The boy grew up with this story in his heart. It slowly made its way to the pages of his writing book and to this day he still continues to scratch and make permanent copies of his work that he may one day share it with others once it is complete.