This is a story that I wrote in a day. It didn't take very long for me to do it because most of my stories don't need a lot of editing and revising. This one only needed a few tweaks. Enjoy!:
August 19, 2009
The Narrator. Yes, that’s what they call me. The Narrator this and The Narrator that. Now I know that some of you might (or must) ask me, is this: Who is they? That’s a good question. A very good one indeed. Now to answer your question. The answer is everyone, for everyone is they. Children, adults, authors. Old wrinkly men like me. It’s simple. Everyone is they. But let’s not dwell on the fact. The real reason why I’m finally speaking up by my own accord is because I’m sick and tired of people always calling me The Narrator. Just like I mentioned a little while back. You know, Narrators have feelings too. Sometimes I would like to be called a Wordweaver. For surly I can weave words, just like others can weave thread? Or sometimes I would like to be called a Teller. Because don’t all Narrators tell the stories to the listeners? So do they call me the names that I truly desire to be called? No they do not. So I am still called The Narrator. And that’s why I’ve stopped telling stories because no one will listen to me or my heart. I will not say another peep. You won’t hear my voice ever again. I’m going dormant like a volcano. What’s that? Did I just hear a peep from one of my dear listeners? Yes I did. Speak louder sweetling. Oh. You just called me Wordweaver. My heart has swelled with joy and just might burst with it. Oh I thank you to the utmost. You don’t know what that word means? Ah well, never mind that. My body is just tingling with pride and warmth all over. You want to hear a story now do you? Well all right. Only because you called me Wordweaver. Now to begin the story; it’s the one I tell most often. I’m starting now dear listeners. A long time ago a young boy sat on the edge of his porch steps. He was only five or six and did not own very much. His family was large and poor. Most of the older children did not reach high school. This little boy loved to think and read and write. He couldn’t do it very well but he loved it. As the little boy got older and older, his reading and writing skills improved greatly and soon that was all he did. Everyone scorned him and told him he was nothing. This boy was a man when he wrote his first short story and the village where he still lived at the time loved it. They loved it even more when the man himself read it out loud. It was like music to their ears. The rises and falls of his voice transfixed all of them to the spot wherever they were standing. As the man aged, he continued to read and write his own short stories. People soon started to apologize for the way they acted all those years ago. The man accepted them and continued his passion. At the age where the bones start to creak and the skin gets all wrinkly, the man still wrote and read things. He still read out loud and it still transfixed people to the spot. Although the man is old, he has not died yet and he still loves what he does. I know that most of you are thinking the same thing by the baffled expression on your faces even though I can tell that some of you have figured it out by now. Yes, I am right. You are thinking the same thing: Who is this story about? I shall clarify that shortly. The boy, the man, and the older man are the same person. And I am that person. Ah yes. Your faces clear up after I told you who this story is about, but no worries. You did enjoy the story? Right?