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The Storyteller

In the olden times I used to improvise stories on twitter, taking a kernel of an idea and seeing where it would lead me. Here's an example…


The Storyteller

Every night I would lie in my bed with the soft touch of Mother's kiss still warm on my forehead.

I would wait, with eyes closed, for the crump of the front door closing, the murmur of voices and the soft tread on the stair.

I would hear the door's familiar creak and the shift in the air, the delicate familiar smell, the chair's muffled protest.

The Storyteller was here.

I never saw his face, but his words would lift me and carry me off to the places he had been, the worlds he had flown through, the strange

creatures he had encountered along the way. Finally the soft lilt of his voice would bear me in its arms to my own land of dreams.

I never saw his face, but I knew his voice so well and it would stay with me through the day until he came to my room each evening.

Then there came a day when I heard the front door close. Immediately the air jarred, voices raised, furniture scraped. Then silence.

No footfall. No door groan and chair moan. No Storyteller.

Where was he? My thoughts tumbled until finally I slept. In the morning there was a man at our breakfast table. An unfamiliar face.

He stroked my hair. But he never said a word, just drank his tea in silence. My mother hugged him, then we left for school.

When we came home that afternoon he was sat in the parlour. That same sad face of resignation, not a word passed his lips.

That night I lay in bed after my mother had kissed me. I thought of the Storyteller and imagined where he might be.

My thoughts set off on their long journey, every night from now on, searching for the Storyteller. I came to love the sad man in the morning

and the afternoon. But I missed the Storyteller. Sometimes I wonder if I glimpse him from afar. I try to conjure him with my own words

as I sit by your bed and carry you off to your dreams. Sleep well.

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