You may walk through the city, amidst the roar of car engines and the waves of conversation that wash over you as you pass. With each step you take, your feet slap against cold hard concrete, passing stores and houses. Everything so familiar that you may not even see it at all.
If you walk through the city one day, you may see a young man sitting on a bench. He'll seem fairly average, his tattered clothes and worn backpack telling of hard times, but there's something about him that will draw and hold your attention, pulling you towards him.
If you walk through the city one day, you may see a young man sitting on a bench. He'll seem fairly average, his tattered clothes and worn backpack telling of hard times, but there's something about him that will draw and hold your attention, pulling you towards him.
You might just ignore him and continue on your way, most do. But if you stay, if you pluck up your courage and approach him – whether it be with a particular course of action in mind, or not – he will turn towards you, revealing striking, bright blue eyes, of a shade you're not even sure is natural.
Chances are, for a moment, you'll stand there, transfixed, until finally, you come back to yourself. Maybe you'll leave, tear your eyes away from his insignificant figure, shake off the chills that run down your spine, and hurry away, trying to forget the unusual encounter. But if you stay, he'll speak to you.
“Hello,” he'll say, in a voice so quiet you can barely hear it, but you can, “Would you like to hear a story?”
You may choose to leave then, with some excuse or another, or maybe even without one. He'll bid you farewell just before you're out of earshot and you'll be left to go on your way.
But if you choose to stay, you may sit down next to him on the bench. He'll move his backpack and scoot over to make space for you. As soon as you've made yourself comfortable, he'll begin to speak.
And speak he will. His voice, loud and clear, will carry over the buzz of the crowd and the roar of the engines. He will paint pictures in words, of far away lands, from endless deserts to foggy cities, to wild forests and clear lakes. From the dark depths of the ocean, to a cozy home, and maybe, just maybe, somewhere not even of this world. Each image will pass before your eyes, becoming clearer and clearer – coming into sharper and sharper relief – with each word he says, before he sets them in motion, and fade into the next.
And he will seem to transform with each passing tale: into the crippled old man and the young woman in black, the brilliant doctor and the street-smart thief, the modern king and the ancient inventor. He will make you laugh and cry with them, make you live and die with each and every one, until you know them all better than you know yourself.
His – their stories will sweep you up until you may even swear that they were all real, more real than yourself, their lives and stories more real your own. And there will be a common thread, some element, all too familiar, tying them all together like a string.
The stories will rise and fall like waves, all washing over you until you are part of the endless, deadly dance, that you know is not real, but might as well be. They will swell and peak and come crashing down, each flowing into the next.
And then he will stop.
He will pull out a dusty old water bottle. He will take a long sip, and then another, as you blink back into reality. A reality that will seem so dull and colorless, after the worlds of his tale. But in the corner of your eye, there will be a little something, a little spark, that you must have been missing before.
You will part ways, as if in a trance, exchange preprogrammed goodbyes; maybe you'll give him some change for his tale, maybe not. And then you'll continue on your way.
And maybe you'll forget him. Maybe you'll go on with your life – that stranger with the bright blue eyes, only staying with you as a faint memory, occasionally nudging at your conscious. But you may begin to change, that spark on the edge of your vision may begin to grow, until you see the story waiting to gush forth from everyone you pass.
You may go back to that same spot. The storyteller won't be there, but something will be different, something you can't quite put your finger on. And maybe another day, in another time or place, he'll be there with another tale to tell...
Chances are, for a moment, you'll stand there, transfixed, until finally, you come back to yourself. Maybe you'll leave, tear your eyes away from his insignificant figure, shake off the chills that run down your spine, and hurry away, trying to forget the unusual encounter. But if you stay, he'll speak to you.
“Hello,” he'll say, in a voice so quiet you can barely hear it, but you can, “Would you like to hear a story?”
You may choose to leave then, with some excuse or another, or maybe even without one. He'll bid you farewell just before you're out of earshot and you'll be left to go on your way.
But if you choose to stay, you may sit down next to him on the bench. He'll move his backpack and scoot over to make space for you. As soon as you've made yourself comfortable, he'll begin to speak.
And speak he will. His voice, loud and clear, will carry over the buzz of the crowd and the roar of the engines. He will paint pictures in words, of far away lands, from endless deserts to foggy cities, to wild forests and clear lakes. From the dark depths of the ocean, to a cozy home, and maybe, just maybe, somewhere not even of this world. Each image will pass before your eyes, becoming clearer and clearer – coming into sharper and sharper relief – with each word he says, before he sets them in motion, and fade into the next.
And he will seem to transform with each passing tale: into the crippled old man and the young woman in black, the brilliant doctor and the street-smart thief, the modern king and the ancient inventor. He will make you laugh and cry with them, make you live and die with each and every one, until you know them all better than you know yourself.
His – their stories will sweep you up until you may even swear that they were all real, more real than yourself, their lives and stories more real your own. And there will be a common thread, some element, all too familiar, tying them all together like a string.
The stories will rise and fall like waves, all washing over you until you are part of the endless, deadly dance, that you know is not real, but might as well be. They will swell and peak and come crashing down, each flowing into the next.
And then he will stop.
He will pull out a dusty old water bottle. He will take a long sip, and then another, as you blink back into reality. A reality that will seem so dull and colorless, after the worlds of his tale. But in the corner of your eye, there will be a little something, a little spark, that you must have been missing before.
You will part ways, as if in a trance, exchange preprogrammed goodbyes; maybe you'll give him some change for his tale, maybe not. And then you'll continue on your way.
And maybe you'll forget him. Maybe you'll go on with your life – that stranger with the bright blue eyes, only staying with you as a faint memory, occasionally nudging at your conscious. But you may begin to change, that spark on the edge of your vision may begin to grow, until you see the story waiting to gush forth from everyone you pass.
You may go back to that same spot. The storyteller won't be there, but something will be different, something you can't quite put your finger on. And maybe another day, in another time or place, he'll be there with another tale to tell...
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