The Storyteller

The storyteller sat before his eternal audience, weaving his tapestry of words and ideas. He held forth in the courts of kings and whispered among prisoners of a genocidal maniac. His voice rose in the amphitheater as the salt air stirred the crimson and white and purple trimmed togas. He told tall tales and lies around a campfire amidst the aroma of burned coffee and beans.

His rumors kept hope alive when logic dictated sure death. He touched the souls of men hardened by toil and weakened by despair and fired the imaginations of newly forming minds. He broke the hearts of young lovers and restored faith in a tarnished God.

His stories made strong men seek refuge in the purity of a woman's heart and drove inexperienced women to betray the men they loved. He brought adventure to the home bound and domestic tranquility to the wanderer. He led nations to war and back again from the brink of destruction.

His purpose was obvious and an enigma.

His heart was open yet mysterious.

His methods varied.

At times his hatred would choke the flow of vitriol spewing from his twisted lips as he sprayed spittle on his fearful audience. Other times a single word from him would turn away a darkening crowd. He laughed and he cried as he told his tales of life.

And he made people think. And wonder at the magic and absurdity of a perfectly formed world in total disarray. He understood his oneness with all of creation and eventually he stood on a desolate planet in a distant future with no one to hear his tales. But this he told, too.

His audience varied yet was eternally the same. He spoke to all and he spoke to none. He spoke to himself.

He spoke because he had to - for he was the storyteller.

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