Austin Price, Editor in Chief
There was a great storyteller
Who told tales of you and me
The sweet songbird of literature
Who relied on his ABC’s
His currency was parchment
Stained deep with black paint
He often spent his days alone
It gave him time to think
He was a chameleon of sorts
You could never tell what mask he wore
You might recognize him in the after
But he stays a stranger in the before
He drives the yellow bus on your way to school
He cleans the conference room after meeting
He’s the quiet neighbor who lives across the street
He doesn’t answer the door when your trick-or-treating
He’s a hoarder of words
He captures, categorizes and collects
Your deepest, darkest secrets
Your ultimate regrets
He speaks countless languages
He is the ultimate translator
He shares your secrets
He is history, it’s mediator
With the words he writes
He exposes humanity
Illuminating the good and the bad
Revealing the ugly
He scribbled his thoughts
Ancient hands begin to shake
The splotches of liquid color
Mark the page with intentional mistakes
The storyteller is a narrator for us all
Documenting our best and our worst
He remains neutral in his writing
For the naked truth must come first
With a mind like a mouse trap
Enticing the reader in
Only to take them hostage
And let the games begin
The work of the storyteller never ends
There will always be more to record
The secrets are shared
And the readers are never bored
When his days of writing are over
The storyteller does not quit
His tasks are passed on
For new stories will always exist
Once the pages are drying
And the stories have been told
He seals the letters tightly
And signs them in gold