In the beginning there was light. The overwhelming brightness of a glowing computer screen blasting out photons and mocking the void that was creativity.

An empty page, a data-less file, a freshly scraped hide, a dark and dank cave wall dripping with guano and the droppings of tiny, unseen but hideous manifestations of our imaginations; for millennia the ache of nothingness has infected the ebb and flow of the narrative with nothing and no one to stem the tide. And then, one day, during one small but painfully bright moment, there came into the genre: the narrator.

Our narrator, who I assure you squirms anxiously in the wings, awaiting his moment, yet dreading the soon-to-be-crushing weight that this momentary pause holds at bay, is not the threadbare, anemic sort of narrator that has been so common of late; indeed this narrator is fully endowed with the sacraments of the three O’s. as omniscient as the dungeon master settling in to massacre and torment his unknowing party of adventurers; as omnipresent as that itch that inevitably accompanies the rash you picked up last weekend but have no recollection just how it came to reside in such an odd place on your body; and as omnipotent as the eccentric film director whose epiphanaic moment of self-aggrandizement has finally led him to the ultimately self-destuctive conclusion of “Ending-schmending, I shall create multiple endings! And there shall be no ending for tiny insignificants that are waiting, never to be satiated. Ah, ha ha haaaa!”

Our narrator. Not tall of stature, but stout and righteous. Neither arrogant nor megalomaniacal but sure in himself and of unshakable faith. Possessed of little arrogance, not desirous of power, yet a creature of tiny twists and turns of mythical proportion and a manipulator of Byzantine complexities. Our narrator awaits, stage right.