We’re thinking about stories, the three of us.
One of us is big and fat, a woman overweight and big boned. Tall and stubborn.
Another is small and grimy, a man with face red and nose welted. Ugly, quick to anger.
The last is a young man, handsome and capable. Competent and intelligent.
We create stories and we loose them into the world. We design situations to deliver them into the minds of those who mean to live stories, write stories. By our hand great men have been born, carrying stories in their walk, communicating them with their eyes. Empires have risen and but flowers too, simple trees. Loose dirt, mud that cracked, water which ran smooth.
Stories are similar. This is known. Scholars read and learn; organize by tragedy, journey, rebirth, and many more.
These are emergent categorizations derived from a more central overlap, namely, the three of us. This is what is not known.
We are timeless, as is that which we produce. We understand wide eyes and waved hands, excitation and quiet, silent obsession, the time slipping. We understand the contorted face, the curled lip, raised eyebrows, and slight inclines to the body, slight shifts in the torso.
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As of this moment in writing, there is a boy lost to our stories. This is uncommon. We visit him and drown him in his dreams, engineer moments for his awe. Lived days that could be ink instead.
We developed his language, which is taking a shape of its own.
We hold things for him. The things he does not tell anyone. Stories of his design.
The three of us, which will soon become four.