I was thirty when the stories ran out. I had always been gifted; people would come from miles around to hear me. I had just finished a tale about a talking horse when my tongue dropped, cold and heavy like a pebble, to the floor of my mouth. I struggled to breathe. I fainted and when I woke, my voice was gone. I can play the old tales in my head but they are little more than silent movies, muted shadows of my imagination. The stories are gone forever. How am I supposed to survive in a world without them?
Author’s Note: The tradition of storytelling is ancient and I think a lot of people either take it for granted or underestimate it’s importance. We learn through stories, we entertain through them and we impart morality and wisdom through them. I was thinking about the impact on my sanity if I couldn’t share the tales my imagination cooks up. I can’t imagine I’d be too easy to live with.