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31_days2008-05-02 05:55 pm
bane-6.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2008-05-02 05:55 pm
[May 2] [Jim Henson's The Storyteller] Almost Untold
Title: Almost Untold
Day/Theme: 2. Hearts have a past that must be reckoned
Series:Jim Henson's The Storyteller
Character/Pairing: The Storyteller
Rating: PG
What you had to remember was that before he had become a pool of stories to be told, he had had a story all his own. The Storyteller’s life stretched out behind him like the tail of his dragging, patched coat, dotted here with shining threads, burned or torn there with stains.
He always had a tale to tell, but in between listeners, when even his gruff-voiced Dog slept, he would sit back and think of the tales that he didn’t tell.
His own glories and tragedies, the sweetnesses and the griefs of his long life. Some joys and pains were still too sharp, still brought the swell of tears, and so he had to hide them in other stories.
All the stories of the world were his to tell because he gave bits and pieces of his own life to them, to fill in the cracks a listener might not believe with the truth of someone who had been there. Those pieces shown out through the stories and let him share his own heart without baring too much of it to the elements.
He wrapped the stories he couldn’t tell in the ones he could, and let the world see his past through a fairy tale filter. It was better that way. He couldn’t let his own memories lie forgotten. If they could find new shelter in the ears of others, and breath life into tales whose tellers had long since faded, so much the better.
It was a better fate than to burn behind his eyes as he stared into the fire and fade to ashes, unspoken.
Day/Theme: 2. Hearts have a past that must be reckoned
Series:Jim Henson's The Storyteller
Character/Pairing: The Storyteller
Rating: PG
What you had to remember was that before he had become a pool of stories to be told, he had had a story all his own. The Storyteller’s life stretched out behind him like the tail of his dragging, patched coat, dotted here with shining threads, burned or torn there with stains.
He always had a tale to tell, but in between listeners, when even his gruff-voiced Dog slept, he would sit back and think of the tales that he didn’t tell.
His own glories and tragedies, the sweetnesses and the griefs of his long life. Some joys and pains were still too sharp, still brought the swell of tears, and so he had to hide them in other stories.
All the stories of the world were his to tell because he gave bits and pieces of his own life to them, to fill in the cracks a listener might not believe with the truth of someone who had been there. Those pieces shown out through the stories and let him share his own heart without baring too much of it to the elements.
He wrapped the stories he couldn’t tell in the ones he could, and let the world see his past through a fairy tale filter. It was better that way. He couldn’t let his own memories lie forgotten. If they could find new shelter in the ears of others, and breath life into tales whose tellers had long since faded, so much the better.
It was a better fate than to burn behind his eyes as he stared into the fire and fade to ashes, unspoken.