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When I grow up, I want to be a storyteller

At a pre-covid party, a stranger asked, that conversational opener. ‘So... What do you do?’

I smiled and thought about the worlds I’d created, the rivers, oceans, continents, islands, mountains, forests, jungles, all types of flora and fauna. I populated it with tribes of people, customs, culture, history, and lore. Then sat back like a truly capricious Greek god and played with my creation.

I bought them joy and pain, gifted life and death, recorded their victories and defeats. I watched characters grow, evolve and change. At times they surprised me, disgusted me, entertained me, made me cry, and cheer and fall silent in wonder. At times existing in the fantasy was more enjoyable than reality, on par with the same joy I got from an MMO.

Hours disappeared, dawn rose, and still, I would write, exploring and learning, developing and growing. I sacrificed my life, time to them, as my creation gifted me.

How did I answer him?

Feanus the Trickster whispered in my ear.

‘I put holes in people and people in holes.’

I didn’t feel the need to add that most of it took place in my head and seeped through my fingers onto typed pages.

He looked at me, a little uncertain if he should laugh or flee.



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