The Story Snatcher

I eavesdrop. I listen in. I’m trying to perfect the art of indirect listening. One might say that I make myself invisible, as unnoticeable as the veritable fly-on-the-wall. I can’t help myself. I’ll sit there, pretending to stare out of the window, all the while tuning in to the voices around me.

If what I overhear seems interesting, I will record it in my trusty little Black n’ Red, Ruled notebook, using an orange Bic. I don't imagine that anyone notices I am writing. After a while, I reappraise these fragments of other voices talking about other lives, and sometimes I will make stories up out of them. What about the woman who hadn’t been kissed for fifty years, or the young men who thought they could rustle a pig to make some easy money? Whatever the story, it must offer me something: I must want to know, or not, or perhaps I might like to be left in suspense...just hanging...

Yes, I snatch stories and hijack happenings, it’s true. I am the story snatcher, if only because the world is full of such wonders that are beyond the imagination. It sounds crazy, but it's true.