The Paper Camp Fire
Long ago, on a clear starry night,
four strangers gather around a campfire.
“I want the best story,” Bob says,
“but only told to me.”
He hands out earmuffs.
Reluctantly, they agree.
A woman tells a tale of horror.
Bob writes.
“Not good enough,” he yells.
The pages tossed to the flames.
A girl tells a story of love.
“Not good enough,” Bob cries.
The fire eats her words.
An elderly man tells a crime story.
Bob smiles.
“Finally, a good one.”
The next night, Bob arrives at another campfire.
A fresh crowd of faces.
He holds up the story like proof of authority.
“I already have the best story,” he says.
“None of yours will do.
If you want to hear it… there’s a price.”
Sadly, they pay.
He reads a story he did not tell,
sold as his own good taste.
So tell me…
who is the storyteller now?
The ones that spoke into the fire?
Or the one who charged admission?
We give Bob many names:
Publisher.
Curator.
Arbiter of good taste.
But here’s the part they forget:
Every human is a storyteller.
Artist. Musician. Dancer.
Creativity is in our blood.
Stories don’t need permission.
They don’t need earmuffs.
And they don’t need Bob.
This digital campfire has crossed time and space.
You listened to my story.
Now tell me yours.
