I've been writing this fic silently for a long while and I think I'm ready to post the prologue. I'm trying my damnedest to write it as best as I can, therefore updates may not come quickly. I appreciate all the feedback that I'm given, even if it is criticism. But, please don't be rude because this story is going to be long, and I am terrified of it being bad.

That being said, I present to you:

Tale As Old As Time.

People were put on this planet to do many things. Sometimes, they can go their whole lives without reaching their full potential. History had made a wonderful example of the opposite side of that situation by making people famous for their accomplishments in life. There are the carpenters, constructing buildings so tall that you can see them from miles away. Some folks make music, enriching the soul and bringing people together. Some dabble in art, painting scenes that make you remember things you've long forgotten. There are the storytellers, making us cry and laugh, sometimes all in the same paragraph. Some of life's greatest things were made by people who were given to this earth with one purpose: to Invent. That's what I am here for, I am here to invent.

I am Maurice Isles, and I pride myself of being an inventor of entire life has been a series of me dissassembling things, and making them better! I have invented my whirly-gig which makes a book flip its own pages; it's still it it's drafting stage though…the first model may have combusted a few weeks ago. I had a potential success with my sockerator, which was a machine that was meant to fold one's socks so they never left their mate. But, if left on too long your socks may catch fire…

My current invention I call the Whammer. It's like a hammer, but it uses brute force to crush things. So far, all I've gotten it to do is break repeatedly and ruin a few good chairs. I need just one creation that will make me rich and well known- maybe I would finally get some respect from this damned town. It would make my life easier; I'm getting rather old and my daughter does most of the hard labor now, all we live on is a the money she makes transcribing stories into books at the library. I know that she desperately wants to move on with her life, but she is just too sweet and kind to do anything of the sort. It's not like I'm relying solely on her, I have tried to dabble in other professions but, alas, none seemed to work for me. It just seems that I am someone who was meant to be a little…unconventional.

I have been a creator all of my life. I remember being around five years old and taking scraps of wood and metal from my father's workbench. I would mold them together and create things no one had ever heard of. I got in quite a bit of trouble in my teens for dismantling every piece of machinery that I could, only to learn how to reassemble it…nearly correct. How you do really know how something works unless you've put it back together a few times? I've kept this thought tucked into my memory since the day I'd realized it. It's ensured that I stayed alive through some trying times I've had. I have faith that one day I shall

I rose from my chair, where I'd been doodling the guts to my Whammer. I only needed to improve a few key elements in the initial design, maybe tweak the bolts a bit. When Maura is back from her daily trip to the library, I'll ask her to check it over; maybe the error is in the measurements I've made. She's very good with things like that- number and fractions, she was always the brains the family. I feel bad for her now because she's taken more and more of the chores around the house. My body is wearing down, and I know that with the coming winter that my body will eventually slow down. I just can't seem to tell Maura that this could be our last winter together.

It's getting very cold now, and the holes in the roof need patched. In my prime, I would have been able to climb the furniture and throw some hay in the opening to temporarily stop the wretched draft. But, my knees hurt so often nowadays, that I wouldn't even be able to lift a bale of hay without being in bed for a week.

This cabin used to be my pride and joy; I had my wife, Constance, and soon after we married, we had little baby Maura. We decorated this place with little bits of art and love, making it an extension of our family. I remember Constance used to take Maura's footprints and paste them on things to make little steps around the ground. Our walls were filled with baby scribbles, and little tokens from her childhood. When my wife left us to "pursue her dreams" in France, it broke our hearts. Maura went from being a exuberant child with dreams so big that her little head couldn't even process them, to a quiet introvert- void of emotions. Her family was her happy place because she doesn't make friends that easily- she's not very well read in social situations. Maura has an emotional tie to literature and science, not people and things. She always has her nose in a book, reading about planets and other countries. She doesn't much like the reality she's settled in so she's more or less created her own.

Maura is my little burst of sunshine on a rainy day; she is the fireplace in the middle of winter and she's the breeze in the summer. She is always there to rub my hands when they ache, or read the newspaper to me when the print is too small. I truly do not know where I would be without her and it pains me daily to think of her suffering when I'm gone. I don't understand why there isn't a person out there who can think that intelligence and curiosity is an admirable trait in a partner. I know that dear, sweet Maura is not only looking at the boys and frankly, I'm okay with that. She is a beautiful soul and someone will be lucky to be married to her someday.

She's quite a beauty and the people in this town are very taken with her…when she doesn't speak. All she speaks of are equations and chemical balances, which can scare some of the lesser smart folk off. What kind of partner wants to hear what their dinner is composed of? Not many I'm afraid to say. I just want her to be happy, for I won't be gracing this wonderful planet much longer. My hair has all dissipated and my joints protest at even the slightest jostle. My time here is limited and I just want my daughter to be set for life. I can't be worrying all the way into the afterlife anyways.

I think I hear her angelic voice singing down the road, forever off key. I wonder if she had a good day at work. She is always getting distracted by some new book they've received. I won't tell a soul, but I think she's a sucker for those romance novels too. I think it's just the thought of a wedding that has her so intrigued. She can talk about weddings for hours on end, but she won't even say more than a salutation to any of the men in this town. Honestly, I think she would rather socialize with the ladies, but that is a crime punishable by hanging. She just isn't cut out for this kind of place, she's just a big soul in a little town full of little people.

So long as she's cared for, I don't mind who loves my daughter. Someone who appreciates all of her little quirks, and makes her the very best that she could be. I honestly don't even know if she will ever find happiness, but I will spend the rest of my time on this earth fighting for her.