What can YOU say in six sentences?
Fall is our time, a time for storytellers.
Let the Winter be for The Pious to kneel before their chosen alters, for the Redemptive Dreamers to stare out frosty windows at snow covered gardens, cursing what lies beneath, wondering if by this time next year snow will be falling on prettier roses.
Fine, let Spring be for Lovers, for those whose lives are rarely touched by loneliness, for the cake-topper couples who make love on pillows of sugary buttercream, for the helicopter mothers and fathers-to-be whose unborn children are already better than yours.
The Wild Ones are Summer's children, the bikini-clad goddesses whose skin turns to gold when touched by sunlight, the muscle men who dance under pulsing strobes, the lustful, the drunken, the loud.
Ah, but Fall, Fall is when smoke from a dying campfire rises from embers glowing red and curls around the Storyteller's face hiding a shit-eating grin, when we take our prey by the hand, walk them through a midnight carnival under showers of stars and spinning galaxies, and shove them into a funhouse maze of smoke and mirrors.
And wouldn't you know, my dears, it's Fall, and now is the time to reap, to let our pens be our scythes, to cut at the lives of the others--The Pious, The Dreamers, The Lovers, The Wild Ones--and mold them into something beautiful, something grotesque, mold them into whatever we want because, hell, we are The Storytellers, Fall is ours, and it's harvest time.