When he came the land was filled with laughter and joy, and storytelling; such great stories that made the heart feel wonders. He listened to the tales of the skalds and the bards, and he begun to tell stories of his own- and all was good.
But soon the old storytellers started visiting less and less, until some were never around at all. The old stories lay there still, gathering dust, dusty tome brushed off by those long-abandoned admirers wishing to keep the tale alive. He wrote more stories then, in the hopes that he could keep the dream alive; the fairytale land he had fallen for.
Then when all seemed lost- newcomers arrived. They came in their twos and their threes and their fours, telling tales of a familiar yet different kind. They brought their new writing and washed the old writing away. He asked if they liked stories and they said yes. He asked if they would write stories, but he never got an answer.
He sat alone in a room full of people, talking about things he did not know what. They hadn't read the old stories; they did not care for the new. He called out to them, called out for friendship, called out for the old days when he was young and the world made sense. Called out for happiness, but none dare hear him.
Finding himself a stranger in his own home, finding that he had a voice which was not heard, he knew it was time to go. He left behind an ill-used library, a thousand forgotten tales. He left but a single note; though none would care to read it.
Sad when you have an epiphany hit you.
But it seems my time has come one way or the other.
And in through the door came one of these new faces, and in her hand a new book, a new story for the old shelves, a new life for the old land. She held it out for he to read- but he was no longer there.
This story is dedicated to Sir Eos Lee, patrician of the short story form. He was short of sentence but long of stature. I hope he finds what he is looking for. Hags be hagglin', gods be god damn crazy, it's all happening ogre at Into The Fire
But soon the old storytellers started visiting less and less, until some were never around at all. The old stories lay there still, gathering dust, dusty tome brushed off by those long-abandoned admirers wishing to keep the tale alive. He wrote more stories then, in the hopes that he could keep the dream alive; the fairytale land he had fallen for.
Then when all seemed lost- newcomers arrived. They came in their twos and their threes and their fours, telling tales of a familiar yet different kind. They brought their new writing and washed the old writing away. He asked if they liked stories and they said yes. He asked if they would write stories, but he never got an answer.
He sat alone in a room full of people, talking about things he did not know what. They hadn't read the old stories; they did not care for the new. He called out to them, called out for friendship, called out for the old days when he was young and the world made sense. Called out for happiness, but none dare hear him.
Finding himself a stranger in his own home, finding that he had a voice which was not heard, he knew it was time to go. He left behind an ill-used library, a thousand forgotten tales. He left but a single note; though none would care to read it.
Sad when you have an epiphany hit you.
But it seems my time has come one way or the other.
And in through the door came one of these new faces, and in her hand a new book, a new story for the old shelves, a new life for the old land. She held it out for he to read- but he was no longer there.
This story is dedicated to Sir Eos Lee, patrician of the short story form. He was short of sentence but long of stature. I hope he finds what he is looking for. Hags be hagglin', gods be god damn crazy, it's all happening ogre at Into The Fire
02-Aug-2016 00:03:52