The Little Black Book of Stories

Since the beginning people have wondered where stories come from. Are the things we tell ourselves to better comprehend our universe simply myth and the most beautiful way to unravel an explanation for the grand tapestry of connections we see and live each day, or is there more to it? Are they mind-maps incorporating everything we are and have been with everywhere we have yet to discover? Is the writer a conduit, a vessel for the story to come through, or do they stitch them into whole cloth by pulling various threads of imaginings together into tapestry and make something real out of nothingness? Tommy is only six years old, but he’s never wondered once. He knows where stories come from: the little black book under his bed.







Every time Tommy visited his grandmother, there would always be something new to uncover. A new twist in the winding path through the woods out back or a grand ritual that must be observed before each meal but had never been before presented. Tommy’s grandmother would weave moments of infinite beauty into the simplest of tasks. A walk to the well to make a wish became a scavenger hunt for the lost soul of a wandering princess or a search for hidden treasure. Each bird that flew above them was on a voyage, a journey and a quest of mythic proportion.







The end of the first night at his Grandmothers' each visit became a ritual of hope. Tommy’s grandmother would tuck him in and blow out the candle by the bed. Tommy would wait patiently until the last whisper of smoke dissipated before reaching under for his prize. Each time he pulled out the little black book, there would be a new story added. The first time it was a simple tale of three sisters longing for adventure but trapped in a tower on an island far away. The second time it was a lion who had lost it’s roar and a beetle who lied, saying he knew who had stolen it. There were adventures and quests and riddles and faerie stories and at the heart of each tale was a connection to Tommy’s grandmother and the beating heart of their relationship.







Years passed, as did Tommy’s grandmother. Tommy the boy became Tom the man and started his own family. He told stories to his children but there was always a missing piece, a space left that ached for his grandmother’s voice. Fires come as fires do and the old house Tommy found the stories in was destroyed. Years later, a mysterious package arrived in the mail, but it wasn’t addressed to Tommy. It was for his children.







The note card inside read, ‘For the one who tells you where things come from’, with a smaller package inside. Tommy’s children pulled twigs from the garden and colourful scraps from the wrappings of old presents and tied the small bundle in a hail of ragged nature and rainbows. They presented it to their father one Christmas and as he opened it, he remembered. The sleek black coating of the book jacket that teased you to slide your fingers across it slowly before slipping under and in, to open up it’s pages. The dusky colour of the pages that seemed both like a mistake and an honour at the same time.







The children looked at their father as he held the book and cried. They had never truly seen their father cry before but it didn’t scare them. This was happiness and some kind of memory returning that they had a hand in. Memories have a way of tapping into the present, connecting to the moment that’s occurring without upsetting it’s momentum and adding to it. Tom the father was very happy for the return of the stories but there was a real need for it. Not just the imagination it brought or the reminiscence but a need in the real world.







Tom had been struggling to keep things afloat for his family. The world outside was harsh and times were more than tough and although stories helped get them through, these stories could truly help. For Tommy’s grandmother was a well-know author, renowned for her private musing and every few years someone, some disciple, would uncover a new story of hers. Her last tiny tale, all of 5 pages, sold at auction for $4000.




This little black book of stories packed to the brim with princes and wolves and daggers and hope brought the family what they needed, selling at auction for $20,000. Tommy always knew where stories came from, for they were always there under the bed, but now Tom the father knew what stories could bring: salvation for a family in need and a new path. He began a new life weaving tales of adventure to inspire others the way his grandmother had inspired him.