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Storyteller – Prompt

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He was a grand storyteller – he could capture everyone in the first sentence out of his mouth.

They would be full of fanciful spectacle, terrible catastrophes’, looming upon something beyond what most could conjure up. His words enraptured and entranced, and it made people fall in love.

Hands would wring when he would talk about different adventures and their follies. Fingers would tighten around each other when he spoke of love. Tears would begin to glisten when he whispered of loss and heartache.

Stories were the way he could connect with others, and so he spoke a great deal. Always with a story in his pocket to hand out to whomever would listen, and he gladly gave them away for free. The way he completely enthralled others gave him a sense of pride and worth.

Of course with every gift there is a consequence. His tales bloomed in his head and became intractable, he had started to become engulfed in his own words and the stories he spun with such color. Reality was so gray in his eyes that he started to believe the beauty in his words, in his untruth.

Everything that left his lips was built up and dressed to be better than it was. Truth was no longer something he could bear the taste of and he lost all recognition of himself, as did those who thought they had known him so well.

Without any realness to his speech or truth to his words, distance grew between him and everyone around him. People would come to hear his stories, but no one could trust anything he would say.

Lies became so bountiful that even his audience started to dissipate. There was too much and nothing was real. The fake sparkle started to crack and break and he found himself alone, stranded on an island of nothing but empty stories.

Age hit him and stole his mind. No one could help him because he lacked an honest life and no one knew anything about him, besides the stories he told. He turned gray and his voice soon died after. His island shrunk smaller and smaller and he lost everything he was, everything he had.

No one but the trees remembered his words and the way he painted such beautiful tales, crafted out of the most meticulously picked words.

When the leaves were shaken by the wind, those fabrications would dance on them.

And that was all that was left.

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