A Christmas (Which It Doesn’t Need To Be Christmas) Story

­­­­­Once upon a time there lived a master story teller. Not to be confused with an ordinary teller of trite and quotidian ditties.  Jason Crier was nicknamed the master story teller, because this is how everyone who knew him–knew him as being.   Also, because this is what Jason did most of the time, with anyone, and for no particular reason. Which, as it turns out, by the end of his story, twas not for no reason, twas for the right reason.  That is, of course, if anyone would care to listen and there was a time when most did- care to listen.

He enjoyed very much his part-time devotion and would make it a full time one, if not for the fact that he needed to earn a living and mere storytelling did not pay his internet, cable and phone package bill.  Regardless, Jason wearing his white cotton tunic and, he preferred sandals over Nikes,would  set out daily and find a sort of stoop or mount where he would then set up shop for the half day and fabricate tales.  People loved to listen to him, his stories were fascinating – almost in 3D special effects and one wondered if Hollywood had its hands in this somehow—he was that convincing a story teller.

Jason was alluring – one had to give him that.  He told tales of epic proportions and then other times, short and poignant librettos with aha moments to revel about on the town’s people way to –wherever  it was they went to.  Gripping and poignant and, oddly, forcing or ambushing the semi-busy passersby to stop and not pass Jason by (for he kind of had something he needed to get off his chest). But, instead for a suspended moment, be enthralled by Jason’s sheer presence.

On a slow day, Jason’s MO was deliberate.  He’d engage perfect strangers in conversation about themselves or about life and before anyone knew it – he would break into fable. Capturing his audience with lively animation and he spoke mainly of love and talked a lot about his dad. And never, ever even used swears to get his point across.

Though many people asked him what he smoked, Jason carried on with his lectures or stories.  That Jason!– his stories always had an importance to them.  They bore repeating to family and co-workers at coffee break where everyone convened at the waterhole or levy. Everyone felt, a winner, who walked away from listening to him.  Like they were now going to have a better day with no itchy leprocy or harsh Mcfamine to go through.  The people of this town (which was huge) – felt kinda…whats the word…. saved! Things pretty much went devinely with that holistic approach to living they all seemed to be enjoying in this town.

Here’s the problem.  Jason was beginning to lose his public.  There were tons of stories that still needed telling and retelling until they sunk in.  The people – – they were a little dense and not the best listeners and too easily swayed by shiny things lurking in corners…as I said – they weren’t that smart.  Yet he was systematically losing his listening audience and knew he had to do something about it.

Jason thought he would make alterations to his image.  So he wore a coat over his tunic and kept the sandals though—some things were simply too difficult for anyone to let go of.  He got a bit of a hair cut and shave too.   He even contacted his dad and told him about the whole thing. Though even with all these makeover techniques to his image and his seeking advice from family, Jason began to get the sense that times were changing and, so too, were his.. errrr…sorry … ‘the’ people.  No one stopped much any more at all to listen to his stories and he would soon have to go back to his regular job of ‘Not Story Teller–Not”.   Bo-ring!

Suddenly, one day, there came a wild and devastating storming stampede of those wearing suits and ties and garb of the constricting kind. So much so that their neck strings would swell and their eyes would pop – very fashionable this look – happy looking bunch indeed.  And this crazed crew rode their red horsees to work and whipped them to go even faster than the horsee in the next lane.  No one, but no body stopped to listen to Jason Crier –any more.

Half the world seemed to have become politically correct and doubtful. While the other half knew something was up but wasn’t about to rock the proverbial boat nor the ark—so this part of the world was no better either–they were all just concerned with shiny things.

One day Jason Crier went to his regular mount and noticed that—the mount was gone and its place stood a skyscraper.  Jason Crier went home and remained for the most part –silent.

The town darkened with the mounts-turned- skyscrapers and the donkeys- turned- Bugatti(s). Jason left notice at the town hall that should he be needed—he could be looked up—he’s in the book.  Same book he used to tell his stories from, in fact, same one he wrote and published.  The very same one the town’s people lived in but didn’t know, at the time, they were part of the script –the dumb dumbs.  All Jason was trying to do was promote his book to the people, for the people, about the people and these very people closed him off.  Not an especially good move and good luck with that.

Jason wasn’t seen or heard for days or centuries.  But every so often, a hush comes over the town where he lived (about every night when head meets pillow) and Jason Crier’s stories can’t really help but be recalled ,relived, recycled.  In a sense, the only sense that actually matters, Jason made his point regardless of the obvious loss of title.  He got the people where they lived…in the heart…remember the little powerhouse organ with dual purpose.

Now this is the mark of a master story teller.  If one can create that long, that lasting and ’til the end of times’ effect–He’s good…He’s really good.

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