An idea that, well, just struck me of a sudden.
The greatest storyteller in the world could tell only one story. He was cursed from birth to the endless retelling of a single narrative.
He tried with all his skills and talents to break his curse. He told of different protagonists with different provenances. He spoke in different languages, different tones, cadences, rhythms. But still, at the end of the ecstasy that was one of his stories, as his audience slowly returned from world-of-story into world-of-reality, they would be faced with the unfortunate fact, and someone would always say “Why, but that’s the same story! Tell us a new one!”
I can't decide if this idea needs/deserves a longer piece. Oh well.
I'm already a third of the way through another book (and have begun to revise something like three stories to submit to various interesting-looking anthologies, because I'm bored and school doesn't start for another month and why not) and conveniently forgot about breakfast, lunch, and dinner today. Oops. (apparently, when left to myself with little to do, I live on words: drinking in chapters and swallowing up whole novels instead of sustenance. But I already knew that with a novel and a journal and a comfortable chair/bench/perch I would be happy until I became so hungry I fainted. And then I would be in trouble). I'll need to go to Borders again before Galapagos, or to the library. Maybe that will be my tomorrow's-task (along with having at least two square meals and clearing a way through the cardboard to my bicycle): the local library is (wonderfully) closer than the train-station, so some 3 blocks away (being generous). I can ask for recommendations for a Rushdie-Borges-Stoppard-Halprin-Calvino loving reader.