The following short story is the one which adorns the first and last two pages of my made-for-purpose book sculptures. I wrote it for several reasons: firstly, I wanted to make sure that even though this book was designed specifically to be folded, it did contain a story of some description so that it stays true to its nature. I also liked the idea of it being narrated by the book itself, and for it to tell the story of its own creation to give the readers an insight into how such an item may have come about. Finally, I myself love to write - it's one of the very first creative outlets I had as a child, and the novel I have been working on over the last couple of years has been moving at such a slow pace that it was nice to be able to write a short, self-contained piece for such a unique and interesting purpose!

As for the 'filler' pages within the rest of the book... yes, I did write those too. However, they are absolute gibberish! I could have used some kind of 'dummy text' generator to produce the same effect, but I felt like that would be cheating in a way! So I set aside a couple of hours and churned out around 6,000 words of utter nonsense, which I then repeated (in a different order) throughout the rest of the pages. 

They are complete sentences and paragraphs so it is grammatically correct in this way, but there is absolutely no plot whatsoever. It's just my subconscious brain reeling off whatever it felt like! Feel free to read it if you like (well, the first 6,000 words before it begins to repeat), but be warned, it's total nonsense! Click on the link at the bottom of this page if you want to waste a portion of your life that you will never get back...!

(The following is the story from pages 1,2, 499/599 and 500/600 of the made-for-purpose books)

The print tells the author's story... let the folds tell yours.

I am no ordinary book. I may look like one with my words, sentences and printed pages - and I was written by my author. However, unlike my wonderful storytelling counterparts, I myself was designed for a different purpose; to entertain in a different way. Like my ancestors, I am an artform. A thing of beauty. But the focus of my own artistic expression is captured within the folds of my pages, not my words. Before I contort myself (with a little help from my author) into a three dimensional work of art, I'd like to share the story of my origins...

It all began with my grandmother, Paige. Paige was a gentle but troubled book. Her pages were thin and brittle, her text failed to run in perfect perpendicular alignment to her edges, the gilding on her leather-bound cover was chipped and illegible, and there were several areas without print on each of her yellowing pages. But there was something undeniably special about her.

Paige's new owner, Karen, was intrigued by these unique quirks, prompting her to rescue the charming book from the dark and dingy depths of the charity shop in which she'd ended up. The neighbouring books on Karen's bookshelf, however, were far less impressed.

'Your cover is all scratched and cracked. What could you possibly be about?' sneered Marion, the full colour cookery book, as she tipped deliberately to the side, displaying her exquisite photograph-embellished cover. 'Are you informative? I bet you're not. I bet you don't even know what your print says!'

'I bet there aren't even any fully formed words or structured sentences upon a single one of her tatty old pages either!' mocked Dick Shaughnerry, whose A's stretched descriptively through to his Z's with pompous ease.

Paige did not respond. Although she understood the value of words and had a great respect for her rich heritage, she had always sensed that there was something more to her life... something that could only be felt, not said. The moment the ink had first made contact with her eager parchment on that magical printing day, Paige was instantly spellbound by an overwhelming surge of emotion, transferred from the mind of her author and imprinted upon the pages of her soul for as many days as her paper could retain its integrity. Although her wording was a little wonky and the ink had accidentally skipped past many of its intended areas, she knew she represented something very special, because she could feel it. She just didn't have the words for it.

'Who even are you? You have no place amongst us!' spat Book One of an epic trilogy, prompting the two other triplets to cheer raucously in agreement.

'I'm... I'm me,' said Paige quietly, more to herself than to anyone else. They wouldn't have bothered to listen to her anyway, even if they'd known she'd spoken up for the first time since arriving. They were far too wrapped up in their pristine pages and the importance of their own words to acknowledge the feeling behind anyone else's.

Over time, each book found themselves being lifted from the bookshelf and leafed through, sometimes many times over. Every book but Paige, that is. She had been sitting patiently on the far right of the bottom shelf... watching... waiting. The other books had continued to mock her at first, but now they simply forgot she was there. She was beginning to feel the same way she'd felt in that dark and dusty charity shop she'd called 'home' for way too long. A fragment of gold leaf flaked off from a barely-there 'i' on her spine and floated down to the floor below.

Within seconds the golden flake became airborne once more, this time dancing upwards past Paige's cover, right up out of her view. The motion had been caused by the swift entrance of Karen as she hurried over to the table next to the bookshelf with a large, flat, bubble-wrapped item under her arm.

The protective outer layer was removed and discarded with childlike excitement, revealing what the books could only assume was a framed painting of some sort - one which Karen was clearly very happy to own - who took up residency at the rear of the table. Beyond a fleeting twinge of jealousy at the idea of a new rival for their owner's attention, the books soon forgot about the anonymous painting and went back to their self-obsessed chatter. All but Paige, of course. She had a curiosity which burned with the intensity of a raging wildfire.

Eager to shuffle herself into a new position that would allow her to see past the front edge of the table and up into the eyes of the mysterious artwork, Paige used every ounce of her strength to attempt to tip herself over, just like Marion had done when showing off her flamboyant cover. But she was just too weak. Her pages were brittle, and she felt her spine crack in several places she never even knew existed. The weight of her form was not going to be of any use here.

* * * * * * *

Suddenly an idea came to her. She intuitively gathered up the memories of every feeling she'd ever experienced, and thrust the attention of these thoughts into her spine with such force that she tumbled right off the shelf and onto the floor!

Moments later, Karen entered the room to investigate the thud, but rather than ending up back on the shelf, Paige found herself being lifted upwards... past her home shelf... past Marion, Dick Shaughnerry and the others... coming to rest upon the table, right next to the painting! Karen left the room, leaving Paige staring silently in awe at the magnificent sight she'd finally been blessed with.

'Hi!' said the painting confidently, breaking the silence. 'I'm Art. What's your name?'

Paige remained glued to the spot, her ink pounding and her pages quivering. She had never seen such beauty. Art displayed the most intensely rich autumnal colours imaginable - chocolate browns, iridescent golds, sparkling bronzes, vivid yellows and highly pigmented rusts. His surface had a painterly texture, which swirled effortlessly across his canvas in the wonderfully detailed shape of a friendly looking dog. Paige only just managed to prevent the overwhelming surge of emotion from ripping the pages straight from her binding!

'Oh... hello! I'm... I'm Paige,' she finally stuttered, still unable to believe that such an awe-inspiring object could notice her presence.

'It's a pleasure to meet you, Paige. You're stunning - I've never seen such a unique book as you before! What are you about?' said Art.

Paige could have exploded right there and then, turning her pages into celebratory confetti in an instant. She'd always felt so ugly and invisible, yet here was the most beautiful creation she'd ever seen, complimenting her directly in a way she had only ever dreamed of!

'I'm... I'm not actually sure...' she replied quietly, suddenly painfully aware of her misprinted ink and illegible title.

'I'm about love,' said Art encouragingly. 'See this dog my brushstrokes represent? That's Barkley, who is sadly no longer with us. Karen was heartbroken when he passed away, so to immortalise his happy face upon my surface was the reason she painted me. I am so much more than the medium used to create me... I am a visible, tangible expression of emotion... of love. I've just got back from being framed!'

Paige was blown away. Finally, she was in the company of a fellow artform who understood the invisible current of emotional energy which flowed beneath the surface of their own existence.

'I completely understand.' she said with an easy warmth.

Several days passed in what felt like only minutes, and Paige and Art developed a bond much deeper than either had been prepared for. They'd been left to their own devices as Karen had been away, but the day she returned was where my own journey began...

At first, Paige was horrified to learn that she was about to be separated from Art. Whilst he remained on the table, she was whisked over to the desk at the opposite end of the room. What was happening to her? Would she ever see Art again? The pain became so unbearably intense that she subconsciously detached from her awareness so as to protect herself from the heartache. Now numb and blind to all that was happening, all she could do was let fate have its way.

A muffled voice echoed somewhere in the distance. 'Paige! Paige! WAKE UP!'

The room gradually pulled into focus, and the distant sounds became clearer and closer. She had no idea how much time had passed.

'Look!' said the familiar voice. It belonged to Art.

As Paige slowly roused she noticed she was back on the table, but she now felt strangely different. Broader. More full. Alive.

'Look in that mirror on the wall opposite!' said Art, barely able to contain his excitement.

Paige did as instructed. There, reflected back, was the vision of Art, glistening handsomely under a beam of sunlight which glowed warmly through the window. Just to his side was an intricate, three-dimensional replica of the image from his surface - that of Barkley - folded into the pages of what appeared to be a book of some sort.

'Who's that?' asked Paige nervously, not understanding why Art was so keen to show her somebody else.

'That's YOU!' he replied, his golden tones glinting in the sun.

Paige could not believe it. She squinted at the reflection, then shimmied her spine a little to see what happened. Sure enough, the pages of the reflected book sculpture shuffled in time with her own movements.

'That's me?!' The penny finally dropped. 'That's ME!' she cried.

'It sure is,' beamed Art, 'and what's more, I saw your title whilst you were open: 'The Art Of Emotional Expression'. Welcome home!'

This is where the story of my own life began. My purpose is to help you tell your own story - or those of your loved ones - through the meaningful folds of my willing pages. My print tells my story, let my folds tell yours...