The beginning was on odd thing. It wasn't defined or tangible–barely even conceptual. It consisted mostly of nothing. But back then it was easy to create and bring to life the imagination literally. Objects flashed in and out of existence unless believed-in hard enough. Meaning was at the whim of the mind's wishes. Whole worlds of curious wonder could explode into existence and fizzle out in a second like lit gunpowder.
But it was awfully lonely–awfully terribly lonely. The number of those who could create, the gods, was few to nil. It was impossible to tell if the tracks–made up of objects dreamt into existence–were those of another creator, or the searcher's own. It is plausible there is only one creator, and the idea of another is just of their own imagination, but they hope it isn't, or at least hope to believe into their own lie that it isn't. They'll keep looking regardless.

"This is a story about Twiddle and his bad night." Erm... It's straight to the point, but I think I can be a little more thoughtful than that. Let's start again.

"We all have been there, on the cusp of giving up on everything you've ever worked for." Err -no. I really don't want to appear preachy nor make too broad of assumptions either. It shouldn't be so obvious -it should be subtle, portraying a meaningful emotion and moral without ever actually saying it outright. Just try one more time.

"Down under the the stolid stars gazing upon the earth, beneath the smokestacks and thatch roofs, Twiddle sat at his-" no, no, no; this isn't right either. I mean, sure it is an omniscient narrator like it should, but... I don't know, it's nice but it just doesn't fit in with the feel quite right. Ugh.

Okay, focus. The summary needs to reflect the story in a brief selection, so what is this story? Oh Celestia, is it bad that I don't know?

The queen of the Changelings' defeat at Canterlot left her with more than just physical wounds. In an attempt to heal the blows struck deep within her, she takes a recommended vacation to a remote area in the swamps. Ironically enough, the cottage she takes vacancy proves to be unforgiving as she finds herself with nothing but swamp berries, a lumpy floor pillow, and all the time in the world to complain about it. The only consolation to her misery made worse comes in the form of four furry felines.