Of Horrible Metaphors and Cliches

Just a little practice using metaphors. An old and dying Storyteller in his final moments, kind of set in the same universe as 'We All Get Writer's Block'

  The old and dying Storyteller's eyes reflected the dim light of the room brightly. They glimmered as if lit by the beam of a smuggled flashlight hidden under bed clothes, light slipped over yellowing pages like a stolen sun in a dark and otherwise hopeless place. The eyes were warm and content, despite their surroundings of a hospital room. The Storyteller knew, as do most, no words are read sweeter than ones stolen after you've been told to sleep. He proved this by the proud dark rings under his eyes, the rings not made by the sickness but by a life well lived.

 The Storyteller's eyes seemed odd in such a dim and obsessively clean room. They seemed too bright, too happy, to be in the head of a man on his death bed. His family was outside, in the waiting room, having respectfully left when he said he wanted to get some rest. He didn't have much longer, but he felt it was better this way. He had no last words, he had already said more than enough.

 The Storyteller's eyes as seen many cliches and read many 'once upon a time's and 'happily ever after's. They enjoyed the simplicity of it. Many people took originality too seriously and worried too hard about it nowadays. They never used popular sayings or even dared to give a story a happy ending. This, of course, led to many interesting stories with new takes on the craft, but...sometimes all you need is a bedtime story. Simple entertainment, like stories were originally intended to be. It's just a story, no use sucking the enjoyment out of everything that dares to start with 'Once upon a time'...

 Once upon a time there was an old and dying Storyteller, his time was fast approaching and he knew it. Everything must end, that was something you learn to deal with as a Storyteller. No matter how sweet the story, it will end. No use being upset, you can always look back through pages or memories and still enjoy yourself, even though nostalgia aches terribly sometimes.  

 He was sat up on his hospital bed beside the room's large window quietly. He had pulled the curtains back earlier and the room was currently flooded with dull moonlight. He looked out of the window over the city with a contented expression.

 He was waiting for his friend to arrive. They knew each other well, you see, you don't get to be a Storyteller without working with him. When you're slaying dragons and sometimes even heroes, you eventually get to know him. They'd spoken at length before, he really was a nice person despite a rather odd occupation. He had been told of the Little Novice Writer whose creations splattered themselves with paint (if they chose to be strong enough) when She wasn't looking. He was told he was painted beautifully, like a sunset. He thought this was funny, as he couldn't hold a paintbrush properly to save his life. He looked forward to meeting this Writer. The Storyteller had known his time was coming for quite awhile now, he wasn't scared.

 The Storyteller didn't fear his friend, this was just another adventure for him to tell of someday. He didn't feel tied to this place, he was old and he had told his every story with passion a million times. His stories were held close to the hearts of family and friends; they wouldn't be forgotten. He wouldn't be forgotten. He had done his job well, and raised Storytellers of his own. He had told his final inspiration earlier that day, he was done here.

  The old and dying Storyteller's eyes reflected the dim light of the room brightly. They glimmered as if lit by the beam of a smuggled flashlight hidden under bed clothes, light slipped over yellowing pages like a stolen sun in a dark and otherwise hopeless place. The Storyteller's eyes as seen many cliches and read many 'once upon a time's and 'happily ever after's. They enjoyed the simplicity of it.

 Sometimes all you need is a bedtime story, even if it's filled with cliches. 

 And as his friend beckoned to him and he felt the strength to raise and follow, his joints no longer screamed in pain for him to stop. Actually, he didn't feel anything but his contentedness now. All his pain was gone, along with all the tiredness and aches. It was quite nice, and he left the room with his friend without a word.

 

 You could clearly tell that this story had a happy ending, The Final Cliche...

 because his eyes crinkled up at the edges with a smile as the light went out.

Reviews

[Marie]

I thnk it's very original, and you filed it under the right catagory.