The Story Teller - introduction

This was a story I started writing a while ago. I haven't had time to complete it yet, it was only supposed to be quite short, but I thought I would upload the opening bits of it anyway. As i write more, I'll add more.

Feel free to leave comments and criticisms

INTRODUCTION.

Some-one once told me that if you tell your secrets to the moon, there is no garauntee that the stars will not get wind of it. Sometimes though, there are secrets that even the stars have a right to know, there are stories buried in the earth, within the archives of history that need to be told. Some of these tales tell us of the earth's mysteries, or of lies hidden within family trees, trees that need to be shaken before the fruits of the truth can fall within sight. There are stories that make us laugh, and there are stories that make us cry, but there is one thing they all have in common. They teach us that the world is never black or white, just a thousand shades of grey.

Some people know this lesson from the moment that they are born. There are people who live their life with the magic of words flowing through their veins. They can captivate the most reluctant of audiences and notice things that to most other human beings are barey worth noticing, things such as the way in which the wind sighs, or the beauty in the sky's tears. These people are immortal. When their bodies turn to ash and are whisked away in the breeze, their words will echo in the hallways of the future. They will act as a warning as to what has been. Their thoughts will echo on the lips of others, a prophecy as to what lies ahead.

Telling a story is like throwing a pebble into a lake and watching as that simple action, that one small stone causes the whole lake to ripple in front of your very eyes.

The gift of words is both a blessing and curse. In life my single voice has been drowned out by the crowds buzzing like a swarm of killer bees ready to attack. Whilst I live and breathe, I have remained invisible. It is a talent of mine, I can glide in and out of a room as if I am no more than fog or mist, yet less than the ghost of a memory. People do not see me, but someday there will be a 'once upon a time' and it will be my voice, and my voice alone that speaks.

I want you to know that I did not choose the words, but they chose me, and like a moth to a flame I could not resist.