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The Narrative Shift

The Narrative Shift I write because it soothes me. Not for an audience — I don’t have one — but because the page is the only place where things behave. After work, after dinner, after the world has finished being loud, I sit down and write little stories no one else will ever see. One evening, still simmering from a run‑in with the office bully, an idea nudged me. A petty one. A tempting one. What if I wrote him into a story? So I did. I created a character with the same swagger, the same smirk, the same talent for making others miserable. And in the story, every time this character tried to bully someone, his body betrayed him in a deeply inconvenient, deeply undignified way. Nothing graphic — just enough to stop him mid‑insult and send him scurrying for the nearest exit. I closed the notebook feeling faintly wicked. The next day, when the real bully opened his mouth to mock someone and suddenly went rigid, pale, and very quiet, my stomach dropped. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. But it was! I walked home in a daze, replaying the moment, trying to rationalise it. As I turned onto my street, I saw my neighbour — the young mum from two doors down — stepping out of a taxi with her sister. I heard the word terminal. I saw her child clutching her hand. I saw the exhaustion in her face. And something inside me twisted. That night, I wrote again. Not a punishment this time — a miracle. A character based loosely on her received news that the illness had reversed course. Cells behaving unexpectedly. Doctors baffled. A future opening where none had been. I didn’t expect anything. I didn’t dare. But the next morning, I saw her through the window, laughing — actually laughing — as she spoke on the phone, her child clinging to her waist. I sat down. I breathed. I wrote again. This time, a friend who’d recently lost his job became a character who stumbled into a small windfall — nothing life‑changing, just enough to keep the lights on and the wolf from the door. And when that, too, seemed to echo into reality, I realised I was standing on the edge of something strange. Something powerful. Something I hadn’t asked for but now couldn’t ignore. I stared at my notebook. Then at my computer. Then at the blank, waiting space of a YouTube upload page. Another idea arrived. If stories could nudge the world… why not share a few? But before I posted anything, I wrote one more tale. Not about anyone specific. Just… anyone who might read my stories. A gentle precaution. A little narrative encouragement. In the story, anyone who read my tales and didn’t leave a thumbs up would find their thumb oddly tender the next day — not injured, just enough to make them regret skipping the button. And anyone who read without leaving a comment would wake with a faint rasp in their voice — nothing serious, just enough to make them clear their throat all morning. Let’s not call this a curse exactly… just more a friendly warning. Why risk it, eh? Like and comment — and maybe you’d better subscribe too, as there’s no telling what I might write about you if you don’t.