A story begins with a seed,
An idea that swells under the light
Of confluence of truth and fiction
Deep thought and wondering,
Swirled together like a cake mix.
Fictional forms walk my mind,
The long dead insert themselves on the page,
I can’t stop them,
For they live in me,
Playing hide and seek,
While I wait, pen in hand,
Fingers a-twitch at the keyboard
Until they step out,
To make themselves known.
The world of the story grows
Beneath my fingers,
Words sharpen until they sing.
Where does a story come from?
All of this and none,
The ancient mystery of story.