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The Storyteller

  • 14

There once lived an old man in a small cottage on the top of a hill. He had lived a thousand lives and had plenty of stories to tell. The children from the base of the hill would make their way up through the rain and snow, the warmth and the cold just so they could have the stories told to them.

“Listen here," he would say, leaning forward to grasp the attention of the young people surrounding him. A fire was flickering in the fireplace and there was always tea and hot chocolate to keep them all warm. “For I have a story that will live for a thousand years.” Here, he would glance around the room, peering at the anxious gleam in the children's faces. He cleared his throat and leaned back in the leather arm chair, the color added from years and years of use.

He told stories of magical lands, and fairies and swordfights. Of Knights and Kings, Queens and Princesses. When the story was over, and the children had to go back to their families, the storyteller would wave good bye and would make his way to his bed where he would be gone to live another life until the dawn of tomorrow peaks in through his window.

© Fantasywriter200 2023-02-09


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