Once upon a time, there was
THE END.
…sorry about that.
It turns out that while I’m still
the Storyteller, certain parts of the
tale have been licensed to
THE END–
Sorry again. The new owners of those bits are very protective of their profit margins,
and do you have any idea what the upkeep is on a tale of a princess who spent a hundred years asleep in a glass coffin? The real estate taxes alone are as painful as
THE END
…ah, Hellfire. It’s being recommended, rather strongly, that perhaps what a hip, with-it, profitable audience seeks is to have no waiting, no test of their patience,
not much work to do between the beginning and
THE END,
and who am I to dictate taste?
Once there was a story that never began,
all that could be found was
(I bet you’ve guessed)
no story to strain you,
no real words to offend you,
nothing that could do you the deadly harm
of participating
in a fairytale.
Once upon a time, there was
THE END,
THE END,
and THE END
and I’m sure it made everyone happy,
like a pocketful of dirt,
like the story told by a headless statue,
like the satisfaction of knowing you made it to THE END,
because why would any other part matter?