Everybody loves a good story. But what about your own story? Years ago someone told me of their experience in a bar. Thus, my micro-fiction:

ALL IN THE TELLING

I’m feeling lonely, depressed, really down in the dog. I trudge to the closest bar and, after a couple of beers, proceed to tell the guy sitting on the next bar stool my life story. It isn’t pretty, but at least it’s mine.

When I’m all talked out, I toss a couple of bucks on the counter in disgust and hit the men’s room. But the time I’m back he is retelling my story to the guy next to him. I slide into a nearby booth so I can listen to his version without being seen. He has most of the facts straight, and the way he tells the story makes it sound really interesting.

When he’s done, the listener, in turn, begins telling my story to the guy next to him. Not bad. He also has the facts straight and his version is even more interesting than the first.

When he’s done, I can guess what’s coming and I’m not disappointed. Only this next guy telling my story isn’t just good, he’s a born storyteller. The way he embellishes my life with such pathos and humor, you would think I’m a real dashing, daredevil cavalier.

I want to hear the next version firsthand so I move alongside the listener. The storyteller finishes, pats him on the back and they both have a good hearty laugh. But when the storyteller leaves, my guy just sits there nursing his beer. I try to egg him on: “I only heard the very end but, wow, that was some story.” He doesn’t answer. After a few moments he sighs and tells me such a flat, lackluster, boring rendition, you would think he knows me better than I know myself.