“I Tell Stories”.
But tonight there is no one to listen. Sitting there, alone, he is the embodiment of a wavering
candle, using his remaining light to call to those who still seek him. The exhaustion etched into
his face now tells his stories better than he ever could.
No audience materializes, not even a passing mouse or a struggling old lady laden with jugs of
water. So he begins to read to pass the time, his lamp illuminates the old book in his hands. The
orange and yellow lights of the bazaar hang in the still air, as they call moths to sacrifice
themselves in a deadly dance with flame.
Eventually, however, a small crowd gathers before The Last Storyteller. The tiny congregation
does not compare with the throngs he used to command, but it is enough to call him to his craft.
There in front of the audience, The Last Storyteller draws himself from the shadows and a gleam
returns to his eyes. By virtue of his story, he cuts through the night's darkness with threads of
imagination and pathways of escape.
Here, at Twilight, I sit transfixed upon The Storyteller, forgetting that I have my own tales to tell.
I continue to watch as he casts his tales out into the crowd, giving each story glimmers of life.
This night, in a rude awakening, outsiders approach the edges of The Last Story Teller’s
audience; they stick out in appalling fashion. High tech reporters are easily identified by
microphones, notebooks and shiny vehicles; they seek to report about him as if he was the only
ridiculous creature left on this planet. Their report about the near extinction of storytellers is
headline news.
These reporters care nothing for the tales he shares but instead for the tale he could provide them.
Their hungry pens hope to use him as their centerpiece human interest story. To them The Last
Story Teller is an exotic spectacle of the past to add spice to the mundane world.
Intruding on his story they prod at him with questions, "Storyteller, how do you create your
stories?"
He continues with his story, but their voices break once more over his tale, “Tell us, how do you
imagine your characters?”
Pressing onwards he tries to regain the fading spell of his narration, but with his cadence broken,
he falters as the reporters’ pestering persists. They will not allow him to go on until they are
satisfied. And in the reporters’ cacophony, the listeners began to drift away. With a shrug, the
last listener reluctantly departs.
The Storyteller arises to walk away.
Still the reporters chase him, “How do you feel when you find a new story?”
“Like a hen after laying eggs,” The man whose face was etched by time let his response, like his
irritation, hang in the air among them. At last he renders them speechless, and to this, he cackles.
The reporters retreat once more into the darkness, and The Story Teller stands there looking into
the distance with cloudy eyes.
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