Like my blue sparrow, I long to encase the characters of this story, with whom I share my life.
Roaming without boundaries they dwell in my head, all threads of the singular, elusive Story.
Exposed by the muse, caught in the silvery-gray and indigo infinity of this final translucent pane,
the shadow of each character taunts me, flitters just out of my reach and mocks my attempts to
contain it with pen and ink.
The Story takes pleasure in outwitting me. Day after day, it eludes my grasp. No chains contain
the ethereal story, not even my muse can seduce a single sentence or take hold of a cardboard
character which might allow me to entice a protagonist or ensnare a villain.
“You can’t catch me,” The Story reminds me in my futile pursuit, and in the stark echoes of
gleaming blank pages, I hear a taunting laugh.
As I rest in the glow of Twilight, aware of the familiar oblivion that peers over my shoulder,
derided and mocked by failure, success lingers just beyond my reach. Sleepless, my mind
fumbles for the Story in darkness; urged by the characters that would have once graced these
empty pages but fall, defeated. The self-satisfied growl of the predator -- who consumes each
scene, devours conflict and resolution, destroys antagonist and hero -- vibrates in my head and
resonates in my bones until I cannot think. Yet my mind will not allow them to lose the war.
Within the deepening dark, Story turns to me: “How many times must I tell you, you cannot
constrain me?” And then once more Story leaves me in utter darkness, and my thoughts trail
behind it. As a broken-down hunter, I follow each trace and track it into the unknown.
Twilight lets in an errant breeze which flutter s over me, blows the blank papers from my desk,
and demands my attention. I move to the window, caress the frame as if it is a lover. So much
lost, I ache in my heart, but with that touch I feel its quiet wisdom. I look at the panes fondly,
remembering what this window has revealed to me over the years.
Twilight never provides warmth like Sunrise nor does it gloss over the imperfections of the day
with the radiant glow of Sunset. It never distracts me from all that perplexes me. Twilight
reveals to me, in cold steady truth, the things I need to see.
And tonight Twilight shows me a familiar sight, The Last Storyteller. The ache in my heart and
the thrumming in my bones fade away as I am provided the perfect view of the QISA KHWANI
BAZAAR. "The Bazaar of Storytellers” was once famous for recitals. Crowds gathered, thrived
on daily folktales, as one thrives on oxygen. Huddled in close by the chilling wind, they gathered
around the fire and listened to storytellers as they shared their tales of long-forgotten bravery and
courage.
But as time passed, and crowds thinned, those once hungry for the journeys of the imagination
now indulged in the luxuries of the ever-evolving world. Even with the disappearance of crowds,
The Last Storyteller still makes his home here in the dull light of a small, yellow lamp hanging
from a blackened ceiling above him.
As he has done every night, The Last Storyteller unfolds his straw mat upon the pavement and
sits once more, awaiting his audience. His legs crossed, hands clasped in his lap, he prepares to
share the words that have captivated audiences in years past. Wavering above his head is a sign
simply stating:
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