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Lime Lane is the working title of the story, so far I've completed two chapters. However, as publishers do not admire when a prospect's work is completely published online, I will only post the first chapter.

Chapter One - Lime Lane
Please Allow Me to Introduce Myself

If a man admits to his insanity, then logically, said man must be sane enough to recognize his own disability. But if this man is truly of sound mind, then wouldn't such a sensible person be sensible enough to be correct? Or perhaps it doesn't even matter what the poor fellow says. Perhaps his actions and will speak louder than whatever possible state of insanity he may admit to. But is there really any difference between the man who says he's crazy than the man who acts in such a way? – or even better: Is the first man any different than the man who is either in silence or denial of his insanity? If this is correct, then I'm afraid, my dear friends, that we are all insane. Or maybe my stating of this conclusion is to comfort and shield me from the possibility that I may be such a man.

Like anybody else, I am not a stranger to being recognized as crazy. It was always playful, of course. Eating one of my superb concoctions of whatever condiments and fruit I discover within my refridgerator; crazy. Kindly borrowing a swig or two from my father's bottles; crazy. Standing on the railing of a building's ledge with the intent to jump off it; insane.

It brings back so many memories, standing up here. Or perhaps it's just my life flashing before my eyes; but I wouldn't know, I've never attempted to end my life before – at least not on purpose. But, oh, if you could only see what I see: Cold wind cuts through the warm air, delivering a strikingly refreshing wave of chills up my back. A tall forest of pine trees sway over the backdrop of a pink sunset. The shadows of these trees appear to be tiny dancers that I'm honored to partner with, as, if I remember clearly, there is no one around who keeps good company as well as them. The ground is made up of dark sand that profiles the figure of an hourglass lake – which has now come into a pathetic tide. It's clear to me where I am before I even have the chance to notice the clumsy excuse for a home – that is really nothing more than layers of driftwood piled in a considerably thoughtful manner – on the beach.

It's my uncle's cottage. But I wouldn't know why I'd think of it, the times I spent with him were never quite worthy of a second thought. I would like to tell you about how beautiful of a man he was, and how welcoming of a home his cottage was to me – alas, the only thing of beauty was everything surrounding the rickety home and its equally-rickety owner. Perhaps – as a child of great privilege – I'd never truly been accustomed or in tune to a life of scouring. Don't get me wrong, dear friends, I have never been used to being waited on hand-and-foot – my father made sure of that – but I was only six years old.

My uncle used to wake up every morning at dusk, and if I was there, he'd wake me up, too. Right before we left for our daily venture into the woods, he would tell me the same thing:

“We're gonna go out again, Bishop. Gather wood, don't touch no strange berries or mushrooms, and don't play with them animals. And Bishop, for the love of Mary, if you stray from the path I'll kill ya.”

And that was it. He would be silent the rest of the day. I don't think he liked me very much.

One day, out of my own childish curiousity, I decided to take a gamble and saunter beyond the boring confines of my uncle's path. My heart pounded, my stomach turned over, and my head began to spin faster than my little mind could take. It was magnificent, the feeling of freedom that was planted into my skin and made me shiver with excitement. It's a feeling I will never forget, even though it only lasted for a second or two. Unfortunately, with that feeling of liberty, came a strong feeling of guilt and uneasiness. Before I knew it, my heart felt as if it were to leap out of my chest, my stomach's pleasant little somersaults turned to deep apprehensive rumbles, and the joyful shouts I'd been playing over in my mind were let out into worried yelps that my uncle was quick to catch. I widened my eyes when I turned around to find my uncle's furry gray head bounding up through the trees.

When he was near enough for me to see his face, I nearly fell backwards. My uncle's raised eyebrows, squinted eyes, and the lip he was so ungraciously biting told me he wasn't very pleased with my little spur of disobedience. He picked me up and placed me under his arm before we set out for the path. It was uncomfortable, so I tried to distract myself by counting the seconds that passed. It was then that I realized just how far I'd walked on my own. When we returned to the cottage, he hit me – not once, not twice, not even three times. Perhaps too many times to count. When I'd told my father what had happened I never went back there again, even though my father looked more displeased with me than with my uncle.

As for the present, I'm still right where you found me. You never really know how high a couple hundred feet is until you're living it, like with most things in life. Call me crazy, call me insane, mad, bonkers, daft, irrational, and I dare you to call me a loony. If you can truly have confidence in the word of a man about to explore the three-hundred feet between the ledge he stands on, and the potholes in the road he may soon be meeting, I'll have you know that I haven't always been this way. Yes, there was once a day in which I had not a care or part in the contemplation of my sanity. In fact, I believe it was right below the floor I'm standing on where I began to lose my mind.

Wow, thanks.

Don't worry, I definitely will clean up that first paragraph.

It's about halfway edited, so I'm not sure about grammatical errors. I don't polish up everything until the entire thing's done, but I'll go over it again.