Storyteller (in three parts)


The inferno, as such, is over

at least for now

Tendrils of smoke rise from the rubble

and claw for hold against 

a clear blue sky

Burning timbers provide pockets

of heat on this unusually cold day

They still haven’t found that old storyteller,

considered courageous by some,

branded as sly and a wee devious by others

Broken chains found in the charred remains of his jail cell

identified as proof needed to

convict and condemn with circumstantial evidence

Yesterday began like any other

or so it seemed

The smoke wafting into my cell

did not immediately cause concern

That old jailor often cooked his meals over an open flame

and I would savor the scent of sizzling meat,

reliving the days when I was free

Soon the smoke became acrid

as it burned my eyes and seared my lungs

No, this was different

I barely remember the man who dragged me from this deathtrap

and pulled me to safety

I slipped into the night as the Law arrived

None would ask now

nor would they suspect I lit the match

I am a man of distinction,

a man of means

but what was I to do?

That old storyteller was still telling tales

and only I knew they were borne of truth

Surely, he could be thought the criminal

Not I, not I

but this was not a risk I could endeavor to chance

This distraction I created

to burn it down, all down

set us both free


Image by Mike Goad from Pixabay 

prompt: The Sunday Whirl



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