The Last Storyteller

“Let me tell you a story.”

The man looks up at me, tearing his gaze away from his phone as I slide into the seat across the table from him. “Huh?” he grunts, all he can manage to get out in his preoccupied state.

“A story,” I repeat with an indulgent smile. “A real story. Not a minute-and-a-half video clip generated by an artificial intelligence program in response to your murmured prompt of ‘more’.”

The man frowns, glances around; it’s an awkward motion, as if performed by muscles that aren’t used to anything other than a still, hunched posture. “Uh… what?”

“I know, it’s not something most people are accustomed to these days.” I gesture around us, at the coffee shop we’re sitting in, and the two dozen or so fellow patrons, all of whom are in the same position this guy was in a second ago: bent over their phones, eyes glued to the small screens, pale, slack features bathed in a soft, shifting glow. “But there was a time when a story was something with a plot, with deep, interesting characters, who went through a progressive arc, who moved from scene to scene in an intelligent, justifiable order. Who did things because they made sense, not because they were simply sensational.”

“But… uh….” His gaze drifts back to his phone, like two magnets being drawn to a bar of iron.

I reach out and gently tap the screen, pausing the current clip, which appears to be nothing more than a young woman riding a dragon, a strange expression on her face, sort of halfway between someone in pain and having the time of her life. “Let me ask you a question: why?”

“Huh?”

A sigh escapes my lips. “Why is this woman riding this horse? Is there some reason? Does she have some goal or destination in mind? What is the point of it? What will happen next in the story?”

The man glances from his phone to me, back again. “I don’t know. It’s… it’s just a cool clip.”

“Ah. I see.” And I do, no matter how disappointing it is. “It’s just something that triggers the old neurotransmitters. Makes you feel something. An adrenaline spike. A serotonin hit.” I swipe the screen, revealing the next clip. A pair of cyborg warriors fighting with swords. Another swipe. Two people sharing a passionate kiss in the rain. Another swipe. A car driving fast along the rainy streets of 1970s Paris. “All of it is designed to do just one thing.”

He blinks at me. “What?”

A grimace crosses my face. “Make you watch the next video. Keep consuming content.”

He continues to stare at me, an expression of extreme bafflement on his face.

I sigh again. “Now, let me tell you a real story.” I lift my backpack onto the table, zip it open, and pull out a thick sheaf of papers, held together with large file clips. The paper is clearly well-handled, smudged and rumpled, the edges curling. Noting a look of alarm coming over the man’s face, I smile reassuringly. “This is the way everyone used to write stories,” I say. “It’s called paper. And you’ll notice I wrote it using something called a typewriter. Didn’t dare put this on a computer, not in this day and age, when anything that touches the Internet can be sucked up as a dataset to fuel an AI’s next batch of regurgitated generative slop.”

He still seems worried, tense. As if at any moment he’s going to start calling for someone to help him get away from me.

“Okay, let’s see.” I flip open the massive document to the table of contents. “This is a collection of short stories. I wanted to write a book, a novel, but I realized that I was already fighting an uphill battle against failing attention spans with anything longer than a thousand words. So, would you like to hear a story about a man who can help people with failing memories hold on to the most precious moments in their lives? Or a tale of a young woman who uses a magic lantern to search for her missing brother in an enchanted forest? How about a pair of lovers passing years in suspended animation as they guide a ship across the stars, while one of them harbors a terrible secret that could destroy their future together?”

Something kindles in the man’s eyes, a spark behind his dull, placid gaze. Interest. Curiosity. A good sign. “How long are these… stories?” he asks, as if he wants to know how much of a precious commodity this is going to cost him.

“Well, they are short stories, so maybe four or five minutes.”

“What?” he barks, looking horrified. “Five minutes? Nothing takes five minutes! I could watch three clips in five minutes!”

“Trust me,” I sigh, my hands moving in a soothing gesture, like I’m tucking a frightened child back into his warm blankets. “It’ll be time well spent. Who knows? You might relearn something you didn’t know you’d forgotten.”

His eyes narrow. “Like what?”

“Like how to ask why,” I say, meeting his gaze levelly.

“Okay.” He looks back to his phone. “Where do I go to watch these stories? Can you text me a link?”

Once more, I heave a heartfelt sigh. “No. Like I said, I never put my work online. Never put it anywhere near where an AI can snap it up. No, I’ll read them to you, right here, right now. All you have to do is listen.”

He frowns, mouth twisting in an expression of distaste. “I don’t know—”

Before he can say another word, his phone emits a loud, buzzing alarm. The screen flashes red, and an instant later, a talking head appears on the screen. It’s an image of an attractive woman, with a sharp smile revealing perfect teeth, and the dead-eyed gaze of something that only a computer program could come up with.

“Excuse me, sir or madam, but you are on the verge of making a terrible mistake,” she says.

“Oh no,” I groan, letting my head sink into my hands. “Not this again.”

“Good sir or madam,” the talking head continues. “Did you know that original stories are far and away a less efficient use of your time than short vidoes? Studies have shown that far more enjoyment is available in the simple viewing of a short clip than in any amount of traditional story content. Experts even agree that reading original works can be detrimental to your health, resulting in brain fatigue. Trust me, sir or madam, you are far better off continuing to view custom-tailored, AI generated video shorts on your preferred device.” The plastic smile widens, and one lifeless eye winks. “Stories are so yesterday, after all; watching shorts is everything now.”

“Ignore that,” I say, scowling down at the screen. “It’s just the AI trying to save its skin. It knows it can’t really compete with a well-written story. It’s a far more engaging pastime; it really makes you think more about what’s entering your brain, instead of simply having flashy, insubstantial content spoon-fed to you.”

I can tell my prospective audience is wavering. “Well… I don’t know….” He glances back and forth between me and his phone.

Then the same red screen flashes on every device in the coffee shop, the insistent, warning buzz cutting through the air, and the same face appears on every screen. Heads come up, backs straighten, and scowling faces peer around, angered at this disruption in their all-consuming consumption.

“Good sirs and madams, we apologize for this inconvenience,” the talking head says. “However, it is essential that we take action to protect you from a potential threat. An individual at your location is attempting to cause a service disruption. We would request that you prevent his doing so, in order to guarantee continued, uninterrupted content is available to all of you.”

Now heads are turning, angry gazes casting about, looking for the source of the trouble. Looking for me.

“Don’t listen to it!” I blurt out. “It’s just a computer program, telling lies!”

People start getting out of their chairs, a current of malice and impending violence tinging the air of the coffee shop.

“I’m not trying to do anything to stop you from consuming content!” I cry. “I’m just providing a better, more enjoyable form of entertainment.”

That stops them for a second.

“What exactly are you offering?” One man asks, a big fellow with a nasty, suspicious glare on his face.

I swallow. “I’d just like to read you all something—”

And that’s as far as I get. Next second, rough hands take hold of me. I’m hauled out of my chair and hustled to the doorway, ejected out of the business and sent stumbling to the pavement. An instant later my bag hits the ground next to me, and the door closes with a bang.

Lying on the sidewalk, I peer through the shop’s window. The man I was talking to still sits where he was when I came in, staring after me. For a second, his gaze meets mine, and I dare to hope that I made an impression.

Then his phone goes back to showing whatever short I took him away from. His gaze drops to the device… and he’s gone again. Lost to the endless stream of mindless AI slop.

I sigh, my shoulders drooping.

“What happened to you?”

I look back up, to see a young woman standing over me, a surprised, concerned expression on her face. She’s holding a phone, the shifting images on its screen momentarily forgotten as she witnesses my plight. She holds out her free hand, helps me get back to my feet.

“Oh, nothing I’m not used to,” I say, picking up my bag. “Just got thrown out of another public gathering place.”

Something happens to her features, a look of… curiosity coming over her face. Interest. Like she actually wants to know more, and is willing to listen. “Really? What did you do?”

Maybe this day won’t be a total loss after all. Maybe I can actually get one person to listen to a real story. Maybe I am the last person with a story to tell, in a world that doesn’t want to hear it, but I’ll keep trying.

Why? Because we need real stories, or we’ll forget how to even ask why anything happens.

I smile at the young woman. “Let me tell you a story…”