The Tale of The Singularly Special Sorta' Scarf and a Singularly Single Sorta' Man - Part 1

Once upon a time there was a scarf like no other; woven by the very last witch before witches were universally considered to be evil ‘for once upon a time before man discovered steam and steam led to the industrial revolution which not only changed the land but made the ordinary man, woman and child and industrial being void of imagination which therefore created a world of limited options ‘for unlimited options was not an efficient way of living and was the very opposite of industrious; and so the possibility of there being more than a single form of witch - because like mankind there were a whole cacophony of witches - the very notion of a good sorta’ witch was not harmonious with the ethos of a time long gone.
And so it was that once upon a time, one by one in an exodus from this land into the realm of storyland, all the witches throughout the land were considered to be evil of spirit and black of heart and so, at the ripe old age of 479 the very last good witch - with a spirit as good as good can be and a mind as golden as the light which reflected from the warmth of her heart, decided that her time had come but before she would leave she would leave behind a piece of her spirit so that maybe, somehow, just perhaps, the day would come when this piece of goodness would be found and all of man, woman and child might remember that once upon a time there were witches who lived among them and they were witches with goodness in their hearts.
And so it was she decided to weave a singular scarf as the very last good deed a witch of such good nature could leave as a testament to the very fact that once upon a time the world had many types of singular beings with singular abilities that others didn’t have and could only imagine of wielding when once upon a time - before the industrial revolution made the very notion of imagination considered no more than a waste of time and any man, woman or child who spent their days imagining anything other then industrious forms of being an industrious member of society was frowned upon; and while the revolution turned the bluest skies filled with fluffy white clouds into a heavy grey blanket of smoke and ash spit out from factory upon factory, the very last witch of pure spirit and gold heart - though her hands hurt of age and her eyes faint of sight - imagined a time long gone when the skies were blue and the clouds were white - and used this memory to summon the very last ittle-wittle-little-bit of magic that she has to weave a scarf unlike all others ‘for this scarf had a single strand of the witches hair woven deep within it’s very fabric.
Though she knew not when nor to whom this scarf would one day find a man, woman or child to hold it and love it and bring it life, as sure as the skies were now gray she was sure that surely the day would come when the scarf would be found; a scarf unlike any other scarf would one day be a gift for someone worthy of the countless strands she wove together to create the scarf for a very special someone whom she didn’t know and yet was sure that once upon a time which surely wasn’t during the time the last good witch - the very last of her kind - was weaving the scarf and doing so with the strongest of magic any witch could harness - the magic that even man, woman and child are aware of yet dare not consider it to be what it is which is a force far greater than they could ever control nor were they destined to control and even witches as good as good can be - were only good ‘for though they could control it they did not do so and maybe that was all it took to separate the good witches from the bad - because the force of love was the very strongest form of magic and no good witch would ever use such a force though use it witches could.
As day turned to night and night to day, with each passing breath until only a few breathes remained, the very last good witch stitched the last magical stitch and with that stitch her time among all man, woman and child, at last, was gone; like a flame on a wick at the end of the line, she took her last breath and with it, light as air, her body disappeared and all that remained was a scarf which looked like any other scarf and yet it clearly, surely absolutely was a very special sorta’ something made for someone who was clearly, surely, absolutely unlike any other someone and the day would come when once upon a time was no longer once but just the right time for the scarf to be found and the spark that lights the flame that is as timeless as magic is timeless might once again fill the hearts and minds and imagination of all of man, woman and child.
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Once upon a time which was a time many generations past the passing of the singularly single good witch who made a scarf like no other was a singularly single sorta’ man who might not look so singular to any other man, woman or child; however, if, perchance, they were to take a moment and speak with this singularly singular sorta’ man they would see a depth within his eyes as deep as the deepest Ocean and a hunger, no, a calling!, ‘for a world long gone - a world when once upon a time mankind had yet to harness steam and the grey of dirt had yet to fill the skies - when imagination wasn’t frowned upon and life was full of magic and magic was the gift of those who were the few among us who dared to dream what dreams may come; perhaps what made this man so very singular came down to a beat which had no rhythm; his was a heart which had a beat that beat the beat which was a silent symphony to all but this man who every night would lay his head upon his pillow and close his eyes and let loose his mind, and as he imagined whatever he imagined that singular beat would grow strong and loud until the moment - and it was always just a split of a split moment in time - that he heard the beat of his heart and with a smile he would fall asleep, drifting into the unknown world of dreams which ran unchecked in his endless Universe of his own singularly single sorta’ mind. And though he did not know it nor would ever realize it, the beat of his heart with a rhythm most would call uneven - sometimes fast while other times slow, as often even as the beat would beat wild - this was a rhythm that was his very own and he would have it no other way because and this was why and how he was unknowingly and singularly special... and therefore worthy of a...  
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Generations past the passing of the very last good witch, the fact that the very last testament of her existence still existed in the form of a scarf was only made possible by the ittle-wittle-little-bit of magic she had used and the single strand of her very own hair woven deep within it’s fabric; and so as time did what time does which was relentlessly move with every beat of a clock’s hand, the land hand changed as did all man and woman and child, for child became man or woman who then had their own children who then they too grew old and time kept marching on; and all that was was now forgotten as a new dawn brought upon the land a world unlike the world when there was not just man and woman and child but witches too, both good and bad and some just were like others were, but whether this or that kind they existed, once upon a time which was a long long time before this time when only man, woman and child existed without thought of any other kind.

And yet there was a singularly special testament to a time long gone; a testament which stood the test of time until the person it was made for would, one day, run late for work and miss his bus and so he walked, a walk didn’t know was destined to change the course of this singularly single sorta’ man’s life.

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Part 2 to follow