Why do you pretend to be something you are not is the question that echoed out within my head as I laid there in the cold. It was clear that they had discovered that I wasn’t truly who I was and all the things I did were just luck. And just as luck fades so did my great feats of intelligence. They faded out leaving me blank and in a haze of panic.
Continue reading The Imposter
From the moment we as a tribe gathered around the ethereal light of a campfire flame, we have been storytellers. Gestures and dances turned into paintings and writing, and as our language developed, so did our stories.
Continue reading A Light in the Darkness
I have always had a storyteller’s mind. It’s always whirling, taking things in, processing, rephrasing, rewriting. I’ve always enjoyed telling stories – via by page, by pen to paper or finger to keyboard to screen.
My friends in grade school used to call me The Weaver, for I’d spend sleepovers and slumber parties weaving stories of gore and horror, terrifying the socks off my friends better than any B-grade horror flick could. I’d have them deeply believing that the ghost of a little boy who died from the measles in the 1800s truly does wander my back deck, where the old farm house used to be. Despite the fact that we’d bulldozed the old farm house to build our new, modern home, the ghost remained, unable to find peace because he was gone too young and missed his mother. He wants revenge for us destroying the only home he’d ever known.
Continue reading My Thoughts Are Always Occupied With Stories