The Storyteller
They came to him out of nowhere — rowdy stories of love, hate, desire, and the unexpected.
Then he wrote them down.
But sometimes he let them bounce around in his brain like ping pong balls or Mexican jumping beans.
Most of the time stories came to him as he was writing something else.
They leaped onto the page like naughty children skipping school.
Some were bullies who tormented other stories as they played on the page.
The storyteller observed this mayhem, scribbling down what he saw and heard.
Sometimes a street urchin threw big wet snowballs at him, smashing against his noggin.
When he tried to restore order, the story kids laughed at him like he was a clueless substitute teacher.
“We don’t want no education,” they shouted at him. “We want to play!”
The storyteller watched silently as the recalcitrant ruffians romped across his page.
He could only record what he saw.
Later, he’d whop those little bastards into shape.
But for now, all he could do was stop, look, and listen to the pandemonium, and try to write it all down.
