The Story Contest

Once, there were three siblings, sometimes brothers, sometimes sisters, and sometimes neither. They were as old as the ground they danced on, and as carefree as the blue sky above them.

One day, they decided to have a contest. The one who could tell the most interesting story won. They invited all of the animals, who would vote on the best story.

The first one told a story about the depths of the ocean, and the rivers that were its fingers reaching around to hug the earth. As she spoke, water poured forth from her hands and filled all the crevices on the earth. Some of the water leapt into the air and gathered together to make a storm cloud, and this is how she got her name, Rain.

The second one told a story about the sun’s love for the earth, and how when he kissed her, the flames of his love caught in the branches of the trees. As he spoke, fire grew up from his feet and caught in the grass, casting a warm glow on the animals. This is how he got his name, Fire.

The third sibling was the youngest, and wanted to prove themself the wiser and cleverer sibling. They began to weave an epic tale, full of vicious pain, and senseless war, and horrific death, where the hero faced an enemy so powerful, the animals began to lose hope.

The storm cloud above them grew darker, casting shadows upon the animals and rumbling angrily at the injustice.

The fire in the grass became afraid for the hero, and ran away, leaving a trail of blackened and burned grass in its wake.

And finally, as the third story came to a close, the villain crawled out of the storyteller’s mouth and into the world, and the villain was Evil. He vanished as soon as they named him, and the third sibling was not given a name, for fear of vanishing into everything just as Evil had done.

The siblings saw the potential chaos in their creations, and tried desperately to take it all back. But the storm cloud had travelled to the mountains, the fire hid deep in the forest, and Evil had disappeared on the wind, like mist or smoke.

The storm cloud raged and poured a heavy rain on the animals. The fire fled across the land, destroying many of the animals’ homes. And while Evil did nothing, the possibility of his presence was enough to fill them all with a sense of dread and suspicion.

All told, there was no winner of the contest, and each sibling had learned the power of stories, and did not tell another one for a long time.

I told this story three times, once to my roommate, once to my family, and once to myself. Each time, the way I phrased the story changed, the minute details becoming irrelevant, or I would have a more poetic way to phrase it. Sometimes there would even be extraneous details that hadn’t been in the previous versions and weren’t in the next. And each time, the reception was different. My roommate was impressed by how I told the story, while my brother was more interested in the story itself. And when I was telling it to myself, I was much less focused on the performance of it and more on talking my around to hitting all the key points, no matter how small. Oral storytelling is greatly affected by both the teller, the listener, and their relationship. And once you tell a story, it cannot be untold.