Michael T. Hare

Nobody wanted to hear him.

Tai sat on the bench, clasping a book to his chest, watching the sun descend and outline the mountains. No matter how hard he tried, Tai couldn’t forget the sound of their laughter, the way they’d mocked and humiliated him. Maybe they were right—he wasn’t a good writer after all. He studied the cover of his story again and briefly flipped through the pages.

Nobody wants to read it, he thought. Nobody wants to listen.

Footsteps sounded beside him. A man was walking along the dirt road, coming closer. Tai quickly opened his book to shield his eyes, hoping the stranger wouldn’t notice how swollen they were. Please pass by, he hoped. Please pass by.

The footsteps were moving along, and Tai nearly sighed in relief when they came to a sudden halt. His stomach flopped over, and his eyes widened. What should he do? He couldn’t reveal himself, not when it was obvious he’d been crying. Gritting his teeth, Tai considered a way out, but his eyes landed on a line from his book, spoken by the Northern King: “Just breathe.”

Tai furrowed his brow. He remembered writing it, though the words seemed to mean something more, as though… he needed to do just that. Tai inhaled, filling his lungs with air and releasing it in a placid stream. Some of his fear abated, and he peeked over the top of his book. The man had stopped, smiling kindly through a beard. “Are you lost?” he asked.

“N-no,” Tai said, still partially hiding. “No, I’m not lost.”

“But you are sad?”

“No,” Tai lied. “I’m trying to read this book, and… well… I can’t read and talk at the same time, so you should go.”

“The Staff of Norian,” the stranger said, giving the book a once-over. “A well-written tale. You know, I’m expecting a sequel.”

“You read it?” Tai peeked over his book, momentarily forgetting about his eyes.

“Of course I did. It was a beautiful story.”

Suspicious, Tai set the book down and folded his arms. “Oh, yeah? Then what is the first line of the first chapter?”

The stranger smiled—a warm, kind expression that reminded Tai of his father. “‘A man and his soldiers stood in front of their enemy, arrows pointed and swords drawn.’” The man smiled at the flummoxed look on Tai’s face, and he glanced at the empty spot beside him. “May I sit?”

“S-sure,” stammered Tai. Had someone actually read his book?

When the man had seated himself, he gazed off into the mountainous distance. “So…” he said, “why are you on this bench and not with your friends?”

Tai felt a lump form in his throat. “I… uhm… well, they don’t like my book. They think it’s silly, and let’s face it—who ever heard of a ten-year-old author anyway? My stories are pointless. It’s no wonder why nobody wants to listen to them.”

The man smiled. “You know, I am something of a storyteller myself.”

“You are?” Tai asked, suddenly intrigued. “Well, what’s your name? Maybe I’ve heard of you.”

“You likely have,” the stranger replied with amusement. “I have many pen names. So many that it would be hard to number them.” He looked over at Tai. “My stories were like yours, Tai, full of light and meaning. I crafted my stories to inspire those who listened to them. I crafted my stories to teach something. Many people loved them and would come to listen…”

“Of course, they did. You’re a famous author.”

“Famous, perhaps, but not without criticism. I had my fair share of haters.”

Tai frowned. “Haters?”

“Of course. Every author has them. Haters try to silence us.”

“Why? We tell good stories. You said so yourself.”

“Some people just… do not want to listen,” the man replied. A sadness overtook him, and he stayed silent for a few beats. “Despite what you may think, a good storyteller does not keep his words from haters. He proclaims tales to everyone; those who have ears to hear will listen, and those who do not will turn away. When all is said and done, your audience will be there.”

Tai frowned. “What about the haters?”

“Hm?”

“Who will tell them stories?”

The man shifted in his seat, looking Tai in the eyes. “You will,” he said. “I will. Authors will. If our words remain pure and true, we may yet be able to touch their hearts.” He smiled again. “Write for both the joyous and the broken, Tai. Write for the benefit of everyone. Show them something beautiful. You need only remember one thing: never stop writing.”

Tai smiled, and he glanced at the book in his hands. His heart felt swollen, but not in a bad way. He felt ready to burst with excitement. He’d just been encouraged by a famous author! He couldn’t wait to tell Mom and Dad. His brothers would flip out!

“Now,” the man said, “why don’t you run along? I expect it’s almost dinner time.”

“Oh, yeah,” Tai said, holding out his hand. “I’m Tai, by the way. Tai Wang.”

The stranger laughed and took his hand, giving it a good squeeze. Tai felt a scar on the man’s palm—circular and deep—but he endeavored to hide his surprise. “It was nice meeting you, Tai,” the man said. “May you find success in your writing journey.”

He stood up and wrapped himself tighter in his coat.

“W-wait!” Tai said. “Your name, sir. I… I never got your name.”

“I have many.”

“Can I… can I know one of them?”

Smiling, the man winked. “Just breathe,” he said. And with that, he resumed his stroll.