The orphanage on Reedsman street was nothing out of the ordinary. Thin slabs of timber wood that let the cold in like nothing stopped it, flickering candles scarcely among the many floors, doors creaked open easily. It wasn’t something to be proud of, yet the children were proud of it.
They cherished the orphanage like an actual home, they didn’t care about the amount of food they got or how warm their beds were in the cold night air. They didn’t care if they were sick or if their parents would ever come. The only thing the orphans cared about was the Storyteller.
The orphanage was silent on the first floor, eerily quiet as if a funeral service had just ended. But if you went up the groaning stairs to the third floor, where the wood on the roof looked like it could cave in any minute and the ground below them looked like it could collapse. The candle flames danced with a voice, a quiet voice, a serious voice.
“The sharks almost got us, they were heading for us at every angle, snapping their jaws, which were watering for food. I felt pity on them, almost enough to sacrifice one of my crewmembers legs.” The children gasped as a young man told the story. “They got too close to our little rowboat and I knew they were about to bite through the bottom, so I did the only thing I could think of.” the man with black hair and dark red lips waited for a suspenseful amount of time. “I shot through the bottom, wounding a shark below the boat.”
The young orphans gasped in horror and amazement. “Now does anyone want to tell me why that’s the stupidest idea one could think of?” no one spoke. “Don’t be scared, you’re antagonizing me, not embarrassing yourself.” still the air filled with silence.
“If there’s a hole in the boat, it sinks faster.” The Storyteller said simply. “What’s a better approach to this situation instead of forcing a hole?”
“Being nice to the shark?” a girl peeped.
“No. Killing the shark before it got under the boat.” The man said sternly, a hint of anger in his voice. “Good night.”
“Wait,” the little girl, Charolette, caught up to the Storyteller as he left.
“Please tell me something,” She begged. “Why don’t you tell us your name? I mean I don’t think ‘Storyteller’ is your name. . .Mr. Storyteller, sir.” she said, looking down at her feet.
The Storyteller kneeled down, and looked in her eyes. Just from her name, he could tell where she was from and what her destiny was. “Because- Charolette, name meaning bringer of help, from the Indy Mountains-” the brown haired girl stared at the Storyteller with wide grey eyes. “A name reveals much about a person, I was able to tell many things about you from your name. If I told everyone my name, my identity would be revealed, I wouldn’t be as much of a mystery, and my stories wouldn’t be half as good.” Charolette thought of that before retreating to bed.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“The children really appreciate you here.” said the kind old woman who ran the orphanage and took care of the kids.
“I’m glad I could provide entertainment.” he spat impatiently, trying to get to the door, which the caretaker was blocking. “But if you don’t mind I must go.”
“Yes! I do mind! You provide more than entertainment. You provide them with a light, hope. Please don’t go.”
“Ma’am I have serious business to attend to. Step away now by choice before I force you to.” he threatened, taking a step closer to her.
She shriveled to the ground, weeping. “Come back,” she pleaded. “Please come back sometime. You have to! Bring the children the one thing they do not already own!”
“I make no promises-”
“Bring them light!”
“Goodbye, old friend. May you rest well.” The Storyteller closed the door behind him without a second thought, descending through the dark alleyways to Fifth, a harbor taken over by brutal barbarians. Pirates.
In his hand was a candle that he stole from the orphanage. Did he feel bad? No. Would he ever feel guilty of something? No. He walked- without thought- to the murky grey ocean.
He knew without even looking up which ship was his. The Titan’s Crown was always full of rowdy men, most drunk, because of his idiotic crew, he could tell which ship was his based on the noise it displayed. He climbed the crowslatter, which was down - a stupid move- with an agitated sigh and clawed the bottom of the ship to help push himself up.
He was greeted by cheers and claps on the back which evaded his personal space. He shrugged his anger off as he reached the starboard, a grin riding up his lips, tickling his cheeks.
He wasn’t bounded by the walls of an orphanage or a home that was decided for him. He didn’t have any boundaries and no restrictions.
The captain grabbed the wheel and headed out of the Main Island.
The Storyteller wasn’t sure what a home really was, but he had found something that seemed to be, so for now. . .
He was happy, and he was home.
I've had this idea for a while and actually got around to writing it. Updates will be every Friday night :)Thank you for reading!! Please comment and like as I appriciate it so much! Stay safe warm and happy my lovelies!