I have a great story to tell you.

At the beginning there was no evil. Only goodness and peace marked the endless days. There was no darkness, no war, no death. The sky was always blue, and the trees remained evergreen. Everyone who walked the land treated each other with fairness, and all was well.

But there was one man who felt strange in this world of grace. While there was no grief or sadness, he also found no happiness or satisfaction. Instead, an emptiness tugged at his heart. It was not painful—just a gaping hole in his chest, an abyss that needed to be filled.

He searched and searched aimlessly until one day, in the green fields beneath the bright sun, he came to an answer. What would satisfy him was not being another good man in this good world. He wanted to be the kindest, the most righteous man who stood above the rest.

So, he gathered many around him in the fields and hosted a contest. Whoever does the scariest, most unsightly thing will win. He stood upon a makeshift podium and looked down at the people.

One by one, out of curiosity, they began to act. There were some who took off their clothes, some who made unpleasant faces, and some who laid down and contorted their body into uncomfortable positions.

But he needed more. He knew that if he wanted to appear as the most glorified man, those under him must be in their most repulsive nature.

Then the crowd suddenly parted, and an unfamiliar man came through. He had grey hair and lines on his face.

Allow me to try, he said.

Instead of doing various things with his body, he simply opened his mouth and began to speak. He told a story about destruction and death, slaughter and murder, about a world that burned until there were only ashes.

And each thing he told became the truth, until the sun disappeared behind dark clouds and the green fields became red, and the man on the podium was staring at only bodies in a lake of flames.

You win, he said. For the first time, he felt fear. But this isn’t so good. We can live on without such things. Take it back now, take it back.

Standing in the flames, the grey-haired man shook his head. It is too late. The story has been told.

 

Reflections

The most difficult thing I had to grapple with telling the story orally versus written was the difference in the audience. As I told the story to my family, I was aware of their movement and expression throughout the process. Although it shouldn’t fundamentally change the story, I found myself playing with the pace and the tone of my voice as I continued to speak. When I was writing, there was no such changes from beginning to end. In a way, I was my own audience. I was fully immersed in my story alone and how I wanted to tell it.

Thomas King’s statement, “So you have to be careful with the stories you tell. And you have to watch out for the stories you are told” (10) was a very interesting warning. The fact that he felt the need to make it a warning means that stories have power, and stories are dangerous. It is already a known fact that stories have power, but why are they dangerous? Thinking back to Chamberlin’s If This is your Land, where are your Stories, where he explored the connection between reality and imagination. If what King said stands true, that is “the truth about stories is that that’s all we are” (2), then every story we hear and tell, even the imagined ones, will eventually become reality as they give life to our thoughts, beliefs, and identity. When we tell stories, orally or through writing, I feel that there are moments when we truly believe in them, even under the circumstances when we know they are false. I think that one of the most important things for a storyteller is how believable they are, and that will not carry through to the audience if they do not believe their own stories in the first place.

 

 

 

Works Cited

King, Thomas. The Truth About Stories: A Native Narrative. Peterbough: Anansi Press. 2003. Print.