All stories, of course, have one of only two plots. A story is either about waiting, or about the stranger who rides into town. This story is about, well, stories.
Once, there was a woman who lived in a town and did not know that she was waiting for anything. Until the day when that which she was definitely not waiting for appeared on her doorstep. She did not acknowledge him, of course; and neither did he seem to notice her.
And so things might have continued. But one day there was a crisis to meet which these two had to combine all their energies and passions and work together. This crisis took a year to resolve. In this time, something odd happened. These two began to notice each other. But each of them had lives beyond this crisis, and the stranger had promises to keep. This they both knew from the start, but like children, they felt that tomorrow was so very far away!
But tomorrow always comes. And one day, the stranger saddled his horse and sorrowfully, but resolutely rode away. She was left waving at a cloud of dust.
'I do not like this story", she decided, spitting the sand from her mouth. "I will now schedule love into my itinerary and ride off into the sunset when I decide. I will be the stranger who rides into town."
And so our woman set off on a journey. She crossed forests and rivers, and traveled through lands she had never dreamed existed. And in the exhilaration of her travels, she quite forgot her quest- if indeed she ever had one.
Until one day, after reaching the top of a mountain, she reined in her steed. And there he was. The man who had been waiting for her to ride into town.
They could not help noticing each other and laughed and sang long into the night before parting, far too decorously. But somehow, the next day, he had decided to accompany their little group for the day. The narrowness of the way caused them to ride close together, and if they sat with their hands clasped, surely it was only because of the cold? Curse the fates for bringing two shy souls together! For this is all these two did. At sundown, they parted. They hugged, and she got onto her toes, but somehow could not manage the last few inches to his mouth.
Or perhaps, it wasn't just shyness that kept her there. Maybe in this shy, gentle youth, she saw herself as she stood once, watching her heart ride away. This wasn't love, after all. Not yet, not ever. So it is that she rode away and refused to look back.
The story should end here. But it doesn't. Because you see, they met again, the very next day. And this time they clung to one another with all the passion of people who know that stories inevitably end. And so does this one.
This time, she was fuming as she leapt onto her horse. "I do not like this story either," she thought," No story should end with one of the characters choking on a cloud of dust. The world needs another story".
Thinking this, she stopped at a small wayside shelter. She pulled out a few sheets of paper and a stub of pencil and settled against a tree. And then she began to write, "All stories, of course,"
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