The Tired Storyteller

Once upon a time, a long time ago, one day, in a time long past and all the other cliche story beginnings you can think of. Embark on listing all these epically overused openings to epic journeys and events, and you still would not have touched upon all the cliches that Arthur the twister of tales has used.

Spinner of lines. Bringer of Anecdotes. Twister of Tales. Shepherd of Stories. Feeder of Fables. Weaver of songs. Lister of Limericks. Yes, Arther the bard had told them all. Thus he was the proverbial slag of the narrative.

It was something he was good at. Something that brought home the bread to feed the screaming mouths of his baby birds. To appease the woman with the rolling pin. But mainly because he enjoyed it. Or used to.

To put it plainly, good ol’ Artie was sick and tired. Bored and bemused. Consumed with sheer animosity towards his profession. Like every person who decides to take up their passion as more than a simple hobby to pass the time, choosing instead to pursue it has a career and money making enterprise, Arthur now had come to loathe what he used to adore.

Frustrated and dejected, his stories became bitter and resentful, scornful even. Money dwindled and the rolling pin came down swiftly.

Slightly more motivated, and a lot more bruised, Artie took it upon himself to complete a seemingly impossible thing- for him anyway. He would go a trip to St. Ives, Cornwall where the light was different, supposedly. Here his masterpiece would emerge like a blue whale coming up for air.

What actually happened is he got typhoid and died.

There once was a man called Arthur,
Married to a woman called Martha
Then he went to St.Ives
To sort out his lives
Where his body would lay for hereafter.


~ by zombieteapot on May 16, 2010.

One Response to “The Tired Storyteller”

  1. this is fucking awesome!

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