Let your mind wander and your spirit soar. Watch your dreams come to life before your very eyes.
Tell me of your fears, your sadness. Your bravery, your joys. Tell me of your triumphs and your disappointments. For we all have each, and not one is more important than another. In their own way each event has value and with each event you will change, you will grow.
As things are with life every step is important.
Show me what you see, for all that matters is how you tell it. Words can speak to the soul; you just have to give them a chance. The way it is written can bring your story to life.
But in the end, no matter how the tale is told, one thing always shines true… all stories are worth telling.
The Storyteller: Freedom
"Tell me sailor, I asked many years ago, what is it like to sail the open seas? To wake up each morning surrounded by endless water and under clear sapphire skies? To live adrift, at the whim of the winds? What is it like to brave a storm out in the deep? To watch the raging storm claim shipmates, friends, and family while being helpless to stop it? What is it like to survive each storm knowing that the next might be your last? And the distant lands you travel to? How does it feel walk those distant shores? The marvels you must have seen, the wonders you have yet to see, must be staggering. Tell me sailor, what does sailing mean to you?"
The children stared at the Storyteller, enraptured by his words, silently asking the same questions to themselves.
"He took another swig from the bottle in his hand and swished the liquid around in his mouth. His jaws opened to answer but then slowly closed as he paused to reflect on my questions. His eyes glazed over as he relived the past… It took him some time but eventually he came back to me. It's freedom, he said, we were always free from the tyranny of man. If something went wrong in the civilized world we always had an escape. We could always choose where to take our lives; we could always choose to leave something behind. Just as even when we left, we always had the choice to come back. We bowed to no ruler beyond the sea, just as we worshiped no god beyond the wind and waves. We were our own nation; we were our own small family out on the sea…"
At this point the Storyteller lowered his voice and stared intently at the children as he finished the story.
"His voice trailed off and a tear fell from his eye. But those days are gone, I heard him murmur. Long gone."
Coming Home
It was cold out. Very bloody cold. Your breath frosts before your eyes as you stepped off the train. You flip up your hood to protect against the cold as you make your way off the platform. The salt on the concrete crunches underfoot as you walk. You pay it no mind.
The world is dark around you. The sun set some time back, now you're left to walk in the yellowed light of the street lamps. The world always seems less welcoming under the cover of darkness. Especially with this weather. Ice crystals blow off nearby shelters and are propelled into your face. You close your eyes and avert your face slightly, continuing to walk your route from memory until the wind subsides. After a few more steps the only bite you feel is that of the cold. Your eyes slide open and you glance back. The crystals create a glittering whirlwind of flashing ice in the light of the street lamp. It is stunning; you wish you could stay for a while to watch but the cold drives you on.
Walking on the platform was fine, as city crews had laid down salt to melt the growing ice, but once off the platform the path in front of you seems paved in snow. You cross a street of packed slick snow and, after ducking beneath some snow burdened low hanging branches, you then start up the hill. Snow crunches beneath your feet. You slide a bit but quickly regain your balance. Snow blows in clouds across the street. Your hands, shoved deep into your coats pockets, begin to feel the sharp cold. A car rumbles up the road to your side. It slows and then comes to a stop a few paces ahead of you, its wheels spinning uselessly against the slick snow. As you pass them you hear them try again to no avail. Silence for a moment and then they reverse back down the hill, seeking to find an alternative route.
You turn into a cul-de-sac with relief. You were almost there, almost out of the elements.
The wind picks up again, once more spraying sharp ice crystals into your face. You trudge forward through the ankle deep snow as you continue forwards. The wind howls in your ears, the cold bites your skin and the snow slides beneath your feet, but you keep going. After all you can't stop. You’re almost there.
Soon you look up to find the Christmas lights of your house welcoming you. The multi-coloured bulbs banish the darkness from your doorstep. You pull out your keys and the door comes open. Beyond the door there is light and heat. With relief you step inside and lower your hood.
You have come home.
Peace
He fell silent. The voices of the night surrounded him, whispered their soothing words and gently embraced him in darkness. For an instant the restless worries of life were driven away and all of his dreams shone forth. He relaxed and consciousness began to slip away. Eventually sleep found him and with it came oblivion. Finally he was at peace.
A Reminder
Snow swirled all around the rickety cart and its lone passenger. The old man, his head bowed against the wind, watched the road ahead with uninterested eyes. He'd travelled this path for many moons. After all this time it no longer held any surprises for him.
The man’s name was Baldric. He was of middling height and in his prime he had been a powerful man, but age had affected him badly. Too many old injuries took their toll leaving him bent and stiff. However that did nothing to dampen his spirit.
Baldric's clothing was like he was, plain and functional; it was made of rough homespun fabric. It did its job, kept him warm and provided some protection from the wind, and that was enough for him.
Although in years long past he had lived an… adventurous life, now he was content to look after his farm. Normally he avoided venturing out into the cold but this was his last chance to get into town with his harvest before the snow began to fall in earnest.
Staring out at the white landscape before him he cursed the snow. The snow was early this year. He had initially hoped to be back in his warm cabin before the snow began to fly. Even after he had noticed the first flakes falling he had still hoped that it would not last. That had been hours ago. By now he had resigned himself to the cold and snow.
However the first part of his journey was nearing its end. He was almost there.
Baldric lifted his eyes from the road before him to glance around. The snow still fell from the white sky, changing the world from vibrant colour to shades of grey and washed out dye. The road before him only had a light layer of snow, and underneath that the packed dirt was marred by the tracks of other carts. Trees lined either edge of the road and beyond the trees to his right he could see a farm, the fire light flickering in the windows.
Upon seeing those lights how he wished he were back home. No help for that though, he would be back there soon.
He returned his eyes to the road before him. The horse calmly plodded along, uncaringly dragging the man and the cart behind it. Baldric idly glanced back to check the heavy canvas covering the oats in the back of the cart. The canvas was still in place. Not surprising but still reassuring. His hard work this past season was still safe.
A sound from his left pulled his attention back to his surroundings. Laughter. He just heard laughter. He turned to the left, trying to locate the source of the sound.
He caught sight of some movement in the trees. He squinted trying to see it through the moving snow. The laughter continued and it seemed to be moving closer. It sounded like children's laughter.
There they were. His eyes fastened to a path leading through the trees. He could see a pair of children running through the snow, laughing as they went. They were each wrapped in dark coats with grey hats upon their heads. They likely lived at that house he had noticed earlier.
As he watched one of them tripped and fell to the ground amidst the snow and leaves. The other, laughing once again, pulled them back to their feet.
There was a nagging suspicion that the scene was familiar to him. The pair of them reminded him of himself and his own brother. They hadn't talked in years, he mused, and there was no particular reason for it; they had just fallen out of touch.
The children darted out in front of his cart startling him out of his reflections. His horse drew to a stop but the children were already across the road.
A bemused look on his face Baldric urged the horse to carry on.
Already the meeting was fading from his mind and he was thinking of the warm inn that awaited him in town. He also wondered where his brother had gone. It would be nice to see him again.
Behind him the children stared after him in silence before fading into the snow.