Deeply invested into the lore and mystique of the realm of Saintsburg (a city in constant flux, but desperately trying to hang on to ancient religion of their forefathers), the realm that she created and molded into her own being, she could not avert her gaze for one moment from the tome that she was writing. It controlled her. Every piece of her soul was placed into every single word, carefully chosen from her mental dictionary, bled onto the page. Each drop sacrificed for each word, each word graced and blessed, unbeknown to its being. With every utterance, Saintsburg emerged from the chaos. Brick by brick, word by work, the silent city of new became the glorified city of old. The people, only once mere thoughts, memories and instances, became all the more real as she breathed life into them. Their emotions, feelings and actions became ever-the-more relate-able, recognizable and distinguished.

But alas, the pages were just pages. The words were just words. The ink was just ink. She knew that all too well. These things wouldn't last forever. However, in her imagination, she was the queen, the creator, the conceiver. These were her people. This was her city. This was her creation. Although, she was no immortal, she had dreamed immortal dreams, sang the immortal song and spoke the immortal words. She was no immortal. She is.

This is the story of Spearmint, the daughter of Wrigley, a young damsel, full of courage and imagination. People said that she had so much personality and flavor that it was as refreshing as a cool breeze or a mint cocktail. Enjoy the story of Spearmint today!

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