So this twelve year old girl was sitting around a campfire telling stories, and there wasn't anybody else there. The stories were scary, but nobody was there to hear them. If a twelve year old girl is in a forest telling scary stories and nobody is there to hear them, are the stories still scary? These were.
She wasn't scared, though. She just kept telling them, and telling them. Some she told in a desultory tone, with an occasional sneer thrown in for effect. Others she told low, conspiratorially - then punctuated at the decisive moment with a LOUD, SUDDEN SHOUT and maybe an alarming visual-aids prop thrown into the center of the group, to shock and appall. But there was no group, and the girl herself was not shocked.
She just kept telling and telling these stories. Like she could go on forever. She never stumbled, never backtracked, she just kept on without missing a step all the way to each story's end. As her pile of finished stories grew, they began to intersect with each other in surprising ways. Characters from one would stray into another, then wander back out again. Occasionally, she would start back in on a story she had already told before - only from its deja vu beginning, it would veer off into a completely different ending.
Every ending was different. Some endings were grisly, some simply macabre. Most of the stories had an unpleasant twist at the end, but those weren't the worst. The worst were the stories where you could see the horrible end coming at you a long way off, and there was nothing you could do but listen in worsening suspense and dread, as the story pulled tighter and your throat tightened too, as if cinched in its noose. Well. You could listen and dread, if you had been there. But you weren't. She was alone.
And you might ask yourself, "What was the deal with this girl? What was she doing out there in that forest, all alone?"
She was telling stories. Jeez, I already told you. Like five times, at least.
She wasn't scared, though. She just kept telling them, and telling them. Some she told in a desultory tone, with an occasional sneer thrown in for effect. Others she told low, conspiratorially - then punctuated at the decisive moment with a LOUD, SUDDEN SHOUT and maybe an alarming visual-aids prop thrown into the center of the group, to shock and appall. But there was no group, and the girl herself was not shocked.
She just kept telling and telling these stories. Like she could go on forever. She never stumbled, never backtracked, she just kept on without missing a step all the way to each story's end. As her pile of finished stories grew, they began to intersect with each other in surprising ways. Characters from one would stray into another, then wander back out again. Occasionally, she would start back in on a story she had already told before - only from its deja vu beginning, it would veer off into a completely different ending.
Every ending was different. Some endings were grisly, some simply macabre. Most of the stories had an unpleasant twist at the end, but those weren't the worst. The worst were the stories where you could see the horrible end coming at you a long way off, and there was nothing you could do but listen in worsening suspense and dread, as the story pulled tighter and your throat tightened too, as if cinched in its noose. Well. You could listen and dread, if you had been there. But you weren't. She was alone.
And you might ask yourself, "What was the deal with this girl? What was she doing out there in that forest, all alone?"
She was telling stories. Jeez, I already told you. Like five times, at least.
Comments
Well, not completely omniscient. Partly omniscient. I never have any idea where anything is going, for instance. But as it unfolds, I suddenly find I'm privy to all sorts of details!