Crafters of the Word

by Lucas Gordon

The first rule: You can’t read your own story.

The rule makers were afraid. The right combination of words spoken by a story-smith  — they burned people for this kind of thing. They all had a story with them, too.

Folded like secret ballots, they pulled them from pockets and purses and cast them into a hat. Each grabbed one.

A susurrous of whispers and unfolding paper consumed the room.

                  I’ll start, somebody said, and it began.

There were pieces that overwhelmed the funny bones, and sad ones that caused hearts to ache. Some were odd for the sake of oddness. Others, unsettling as an earthquake. Then came the last.

                  The wisest of them stood and looked around the table.

                  “I’m not sure we should do this little bugger,” she said, holding the paper carefully. But then a sassy smile, and she began.

The Story

                  I saw a story out of the corner of my eye. Dark and strong, wearing other writers pens and pencils as jewelry, a laptop for a hat. I asked its name.

                  “I am the wind in Pan’s flute,” it answered.

                  “Don’t you have a name of your own?”

                  “No.”

                  “I’m going to give you one.”

                  “You may try.”

                  And I toiled, but the story fought me. It was feral and smelled bad. I wrote quickly when it’d open to me, but mostly it went slow. One day, after many months, it laughed and said,

                  “I’ll never make you rich and no one will remember your name. I’ve buried better writers.”

                  “Yes, I’m sure you have.”

“Why not find something else to do? Maybe you could paint.”

“You’ll have a name, my friend.”

It looked at me a long time, spat, and went back to its corner. I knew then it wanted me to write it. And so it goes.