I have been told that I wasn’t born here. That I was different than everyone else. They call me the boy who tells the stories. I don’t mind it. I like to sit in the square where all the little kids play, I make up stories for them. When they see me coming they all sit down by the stoop I sit on, knowing that I have made up another story for them.
Sometimes my friends, the girl who draws, and the boy with one eye come and sit on my stoop with me while I tell my stories, the girl who draws likes to draw pictures of the people and creatures in my stories, for the children. Us three are well known throughout town, because the children love us, they beg their parents to come listen to my stories, but they never seem to appreciate the worlds I create. They say that I am filling their children’s heads with nonsense, but I know that I am filling their heads with dreams.
The kind woman tells me that someday, I will have to leave, that someday my father will come back for me. I don’t remember my father. The only parent I have ever known is the kind woman. She has always been the one to care for me. She is the one who started calling me the boy who tells the stories.
