In any story, the inciting incident was of the highest importance. That was the primary driving force behind the narrative that would follow. While characters, plots, subplots, symbols, and themes were important, they were worthless without a noteworthy inciting incident to catch the audience's attention. Foster tried to beat that idea into the students' heads when it came to creative writing. Every year, he tasked the class to write a short story over the course of the semester. Through this project, they showed their current writing prowess, as well as the skills they acquired during the class.

They never listened to their teacher’s paramount lesson, creating some of the most meaningless drivel known to man. Year after begrudging year, paper after monotonous paper, he bored himself to sleep reading "He woke up and discovered he was a fill in the cliche here," and "She woke up to realize she lost her random MacGuffin," and worse, "What was that weird dream?" Foster dreaded the state of literature for the next half-century. Not an original thought in their heads.

That was one of the many reasons he skipped work that morning. With the remaining part of his day free, he wondered what he should do. Despite the early hour, it was impossible for Foster to return to his bed. He considered picking up a half-read book and enjoying a relaxed morning in his living room chair. No, today needed a special celebration marking the moment he broke free of his cage.

Stepping into his study, he rifled through his desk drawers. The disorganized piles of cluttered paper jammed into the wooden bins would've made his mother weep. Poor woman loved order. "A place for everything and everything in its place." She must have quoted that line to him a few hundred times before he could walk. He never learned the lesson, but he wished he had when he dug through the drawers in search of a single scrap of paper.

Mutt hadn't stopped barking at the back door. "Shut up," Foster shouted from time to time. A quick rebuke cowed the dog down, but he took up his ferocious snarling moments later. He never left the door, glaring at it as if an intruder would burst through at any moment. Foster paid him no mind. He had already looked out at his backyard to satisfy the dog’s aggressive curiosity. As expected, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Anything spooked an animal. He recalled a large hound that chased a plastic bag down the street for ten minutes, not satisfied until he ripped it to shreds.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit of unnerved tension building in his stomach. This was uncommon behavior for Mutt. He was good at maintaining his composure in the house. This was a place of refuge for the furry vagabond. Why should he guard the back door with hair bristling in alarm? At the back of his mind, a familiar sinister image struggled to form. Before he could recall it, his hands exited the third left drawer holding an old folded paper in his tight-fisted grip. The image fled from his mind. He released a long, excited breath as he opened the page. When I Quit My Job was scrawled across the top. No date was listed, but Foster needed no help recalling the time of its inscription. It was the night before he began teaching.

Though many had long-term desires, few wrote a list. Perhaps it was too morbid or they feared their goals would never come to fruition. Foster knew he needed the creased paper; he wouldn't have made it this far without it. On the tough days, he needed to see what he wrote. Just as it had so many times before, his list brought a smile to his thin lips. Hurl a burning garbage bag on the principal's doorstep. Chase Mrs. Henderson’s cat with a pool noodle. Beat Mr. Raymond's mailbox in with a baseball bat.

The sheer juvenile and malevolent nature of his list brought a deep, guttural chortle to Foster’s lips. He forgot how vivid his imagination could be. During the seventh grade, he was sent home from school because he wrote the most disturbing story his teacher had ever read. Though that story was destroyed years ago, his list gave him an idea of the messed-up mind he had at thirteen years old. As he perused his many ideas, one stood out. Steal the Pendragon Blade from Cain's Chapel. The very thought filled him with boyish mischief.

During his youth, his parents were two of the most God-fearing people in Brasil. His father was a minister of Cain's Chapel; his mother was the dutiful wife. Every time the doors were open, seekers of God would find his father standing at the entrance with a wide, welcoming smile and a friendly clap on the back. Meanwhile, his mother listened to the weekly complaints of the families and widows, offering words of wisdom and candy for the children. Many thought she was wise beyond her years. Before his father delivered the week's message, the duo would perform a song. His father played the piano, having all the passion and skill of Billy Joel, fingers running across the keys, making melodies straight from Heaven. As for his mother, when she opened her mouth, it was as if an angel came down to speak. Foster knew it was a cliche, but no one could describe it better. He often wondered why his parents settled for the meaningless drudgery of ministry. Their combined talent was enough to land them a record deal with two country-wide tours.

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Being the ever-dutiful son, Foster played his role well. He was well-behaved, never fell asleep in church, and did as his parents asked. Except for one day when he stepped out of line. It was a day that lived in infamy. At that chapel, a long sword rested over the entrance's threshold. It was an old weapon peppered by rust's kisses. His father called it Pendragon's blade. It was said to belong to a knight that sailed to the island in search of dragons. Recalling that story, Foster thought about how stupid people were. They lived in fear of the unknown, needing to conquer anything that they didn't understand. When the maps weren't filled in, mankind searched for monsters to only find beasts who looked like them. Having no myths to fight, they settled for one another. Nowadays, people were not so different. They clung to superstitions. He heard more than his share of island legends of dragons and hermits. It was enough to make him sick. They were desperate to ignore the pitiful mundaneness of their lives.

During his childhood, Foster was no better. Gazing at the sword, he longed to wield it like a knight in a fairy tale. Being struck by a severe case of adventurous ideals, he obtained the sword using a rickety ladder often hidden behind the chapel. He never forgot how it felt. Using both hands, he lugged the blade around though the weight was impossible for him to manage. He had to jostle it off the metal pegs to remove the blade from its resting place. To his chagrin, the blade had fallen, leaving a large gash in the old floor. Before the day was out, he was punished for his foolishness and for damaging the chapel. He never forgot the rage in his father’s eyes.

Not that he cared. It was worth every second. For most of the afternoon, he was everything from a pauper turned knight to a powerful king. He was the hero, dragging the massive sword behind him. His tiny muscles only succeeded in lifting it an inch off the ground. In his mind, that was the difference between being a peasant and the chosen one. Nothing was impossible for the eight-year-old until the sword was ripped from his grasp. That was the moment all his naivety died. "The blade is mine. I'm taking it back," he muttered as he looked at the old paper, captivated by memories.

The only thing that brought him out was a knock on the front door. Foster froze, hoping that his unwelcome newcomer would leave. The knocking persisted. Sighing, he stuffed the paper into his pocket, trudging to see who was calling at this time of day. Mutt kept his noisy vigil at the back. "Hey moron," Foster shouted. "Might be an intruder at the front. Ever think of that?" The dog paid him no mind. Rolling his eyes, he opened the door to find a short, balding man wearing Bermuda shorts.

Flashing a cordial toothy grin, the man greeted, "Mornin' Joe."

"Mr. Felix," Foster replied. Foster must have heard the man's name hundreds of times over the years, but he couldn’t bother himself to remember it. Mr. Felix would work. The man wasn’t far from the age where men forget their own names. "What brings you here this time of day?" Felix was a beach dweller, always standing near the surf when dawn rose to greet him. It was unusual for him to stray from the beach at dawn's approaching hour.

"Have you seen Nelson?" Mr. Felix asked. The very name made Foster shudder. Nelson was the most pathetic excuse for a canine he had ever seen. It had more in common with a degenerate rat. Bug-eyed and stinking to high heavens, the vermin chewed the remaining hair off its buttocks as he wheezed and grunted like a sow rooting through her trough. Stupid dog was allergic to grass.

"You think I care one iota about that miserable cur?" he sniffed in disdain. He might have answered with empty pleasantries if it were any other day. This was a special time where he intended the trajectory of his life to change from this point onwards. He had no interest in going through the motions.

Felix blinked in surprised hurt. Taking a tentative step back, he added in defeat, “Well, if you happen to see him, give me a call. You know how to reach me.” The old man handed the younger his telephone number some time ago. It was another crumpled paper inside the desk; that is if he hadn’t thrown it away ten seconds after receiving it.

Foster slammed the door without waiting for the old man to vacate the threshold. Whatever concerned the old bat had nothing to do with him. There was only one thing occupying his mind. Hurrying to his room, he retrieved a worn-out backpack from his closet. It was a keepsake from his college days, those wasted years. He emptied the forgotten papers and out-of-date textbooks that were worthless for buyback at the university supply store. Eyeing the bag, he knew it was the perfect size for his intended task. Slinging it over his shoulder, he returned to his study, finding a long ten-inch knife hidden in the center drawer. A gift from his father. One of the few things he kept in memory of the old man.

Strapping the knife to his leg, he returned to the front door. Mutt hadn’t ceased his insistent yipping at the back door. “Hey,” Foster barked. “I’m not going that way. Whatever’s got you bothered over there doesn’t matter.” His companion didn’t acknowledge his presence. Opening the door, he found his porch empty. No doubt Felix was bothering someone else with his canine woes. Before leaving, he called Mutt one last time. “If you’re coming along, this is your last chance.”

Mutt fell quiet. His eyes bore into the back door. His bristled hair laid flat as his ears relaxed. As he slunk away, he kept turning back toward the door as if some wretched cat would creep out to claw his tongue out. In time, he reached Foster’s side. “You’re gonna like this,” Foster said as he closed the door behind them. “It’ll be much more fun than yapping at a door all day.” Having no automobile, the pair made their way on foot. The streets were empty as Mutt kept looking around, agitated by something other than the back door. Foster paid no mind, excitement building in his chest. Was this his inciting incident or was it on the horizon? In the hour before daybreak, Foster couldn’t wait to see what was in store. Little did he know that just off the western coast of Brasil, the fog had rolled in.