The Storyteller

She’s wrong, but I can’t tell you what’s wrong with her. She doesn’t fit in Carlisle, but I’ve the feeling she won’t fit anywhere. Her story’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard before.

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The first time I saw this lunatic of a woman, she was sitting in my favorite booth at the White Raven. I knew she didn’t fit the second I laid eyes on her. The people here in Carlisle are strange, but not that strange.

The mad rocket was wearing robes, like some kind of Jedi. She’s just the right height too. Not too tall, not too short. She probably can buy jeans off the rack.

I didn’t want to talk to her. But she wouldn’t leave me be. And before I knew what was happening, she’d dragged me into this peculiar one-sided conversation that I couldn’t walk away from.

She started in on her story, and I sat transfixed until she finished speaking. I didn’t want to care about her story, but she made me do it anyway.

She’s wrong, but I can’t tell you what’s wrong with her. She doesn’t fit in Carlisle, but I’ve the feeling she won’t fit anywhere. Her story’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. So I’ll write it down. But that doesn’t mean I believe her.

I’d have to be as mad as she is for that.