The Storyteller.

Marty Stewart was happiest when he was drawing or colouring. He loved drawing super heroes because he'd grown up wanting to be one. Except, he didn't have what it took to be a real super hero. Real super heroes didn't have racing hearts. Well, they did. But not all the time like his heart.

He remembered fondly the very first real cartoon he drew. His hero was simply called 'The Man'. In a world where men were nearly extinct in the world, The Man was one of the last in existence and faced the same sort of struggles with status and sexism that women faced in reality.

Since, he'd created a whole world of cartoon characters. From The Phoenix, who always rose from the ashes. no matter the occasion to the Lone Chameleon, who could turn invisible when everyone forgot about him and be illuminated with attention. He'd even created a hero called The Storyteller, inspired by his grandfather, who always told him how many more stories he had to tell. He said "You'll have to come back so I can tell you another one." Marty thought his grandfather's stories were the greatest ever told. And to his mind, the Storyteller was his greatest creation.

But, his most popular creation was The Beater, who had more of himself than any other character he'd created. Marty had always longer for there to be someone like him. To be able to see himself as a superhero. There wasn't anyone like him out there. So he created someone. One person can make a difference, he remembered his grandfather telling him once. He'd told him about how heroes show people that ey don't have to be perfect and how it's ok to be vulnerable. "Even though they're heroes," he'd said, "they're still human."
I've got nothing to lose, he thought. Maybe. I'll try. The Beater thrived on love. His heart beat wildly when he was unloved. His Grandfather had been the one to reassure him when he'd had bad first reviews. "Everybody needs love, Marty," he'd said. "It fuels us. It's the Beater;'s fuel to keep him going. It's not vain. It's human nature."

The day Marty's fast cartoon was published, no one was prouder than his grandfather. "This is just the beginning, my son," he said. "Excelsior!"

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In memory of the legendary Stan Lee. Rest In Peace.

Rise

I am so used to fighting, to making plans for my every move and every possible eventuality that it takes some time for me to rise again. I rise slowly, but I rise nonetheless. I will rise to stand tall.

I have been waiting for this day for so long, that now it’s finally here... Now that it’s all over and it’s finally the end, I’m strangely lost. But soon, I trust.. I hope the dove will come with it’s offer of an olive branch to bring the tranquility and calm that are now only a distant memory, but that I will soon know again.

Already, I can feel the shadow of the real me melt away as I step forward to take it’s place. The sun has started to shine again and the clouds are beginning to clear. The weight of the world has been lifted from my shoulders, and after all this time, finally, for the first time in forever... I am free.

I am free, but it doesn’t feel real. It feels like one of my fantastical daydreams, all too good to be true. Except it’s not. After all this time, it’s really, really real. One day soon, I’ll believe it. But for now, I’ll just revel in this beautiful feeling of freedom. In the wonderful liberation of release. I will rise. Slowly but surely, I will rise again from the ashes and I will be stronger than I was before. When you’ll be sorry that you ever let me slip through your fingers. And then you’ll be the ones crying at all that you’ve lost and all of the potential that you wasted. And you have no one to blame but yourself.

But I won’t look back. I won’t pause. I will keep moving ahead and I will rise again. Better and stronger than I was before.