Once upon a time there was a boy called Edward. It was apparent from the outset that he was a natural born storyteller. Instead of his parents reading to him Little Red Riding Hood or Goldilocks and the Three Bears or The Cat in the Hat, he would tell his parents stories that were in fact better than any of the children’s classics. Instead of friends coming over to play video games or Lego or HotWheels, they would come over to listen to his stories. Instead of winning over girlfriends with chocolates or flowers or candlelight dinners, he would pick them up with his stories.
Edward was a natural born storyteller; he knew about first-person vs. third-person perspectives and pace and character-driven plots without ever having heard of these terms. Most importantly, he had flair, which was what made his stories so wonderful.
There was one thing, however, about his stories, that made people either love or hate his storytelling. There was absolutely no middle ground. At first his parents had thought that it was merely an adorable quirk of a small child. When it carried over well into maturity, his fans wouldn’t have it any other way, whereas his, well, haters absolutely loathed it.
Each and every one of Edward’s stories stopped abruptly in the middle.
Then, one day