Some stories are missing

I was using a service at Fileden.com to store the story recordings on this site, but for some reason, all the files have been deleted! This means that some of the streaming stories will come up as errors until I replace the files.

So if you notice that a story is no longer playing, please send me an email and I'll fix it.

The Lost Poetix Bag

The Montreal spoken word community seriously rocks. We are so blessed to have such an open and welcoming community. Last year, I dipped my toe into the spoken word community with some hesitation, not sure how they would react to a storyteller with all these poets. I had heard horror stories from other communities that stated that the spoken word community and the storytelling community stayed on opposite ends of the road and very rarely crossed to see what was happening on the others side. Supposedly, the storytellers didn't like the raw edginess of the spoken word world, and the spoken worders didn't like the traditional format of the storyteller's art.

But not in Montreal. For over a year, I have been warmly welcomed into various spoken word events and labeled as the Storyteller. The audiences have been receptive and generous and it has been a great, rewarding experience. Much love to Montreal's spoken word community!

So there's this event called MadPoetix run by the great Kym Dominique-Ferguson that happens on the second Sunday of the month (soon to be the second Saturday of each month in 2013). I've been going off and on for over a year now and I've told quite a few tales. Tonight was my return to MadPoetix after having taken the summer off, and I promised a new story that was a sordid tale from Kym's past.

This is a great frame story that I have used several times already. It allows for lots of customization, so I can throw in details about other people and events and it all seems natural. Enjoy!

I tried to clean up the audio on this recording, but since I used my Android to record it, it is what it is.

The Lost Poetix Bag (6:23) told by JD Hickey

Yuletide Story: The Devil's Canoe

People often ask me if I ever tell original stories or if I ever write my own stories. I usually bristle at this question, as if it suggests that I'm just parroting other people's stories word-for-word. When I  find a story I like, it goes through a transformation as I learn it, change it, drop details, add new details, and slowly make it my own.

You may be able to see a thread in the story that connects it to its traditional source, but the story I tell is mine.

That being said, this is a story that I wrote. I wrote it around the classic Quebecois story La Chasse Galerie, but the presence of the devil's canoe as a plot-device is the only thing I re-used. The rest of it is my own creation.

I don't tell this story often enough, mainly because it's a story I associate with this time of year. It was recorded before a live audience at Chateau Ramezay in Old Montreal in December of 2010.

The Devil's Canoe (11:35) told by JD Hickey

Clarella's Devils

The 10 gold sovereigns disappeared quickly into the witch’s pouch, but these were desperate times. Horace and Matilde craved a child to chase away their despair, which hung from their shoe leather as they dragged themselves through life.

The witch offered them the potion, which simmered in a stained brass cup. Closing her eyes, Matilde whispered a dark promise and drank the bitter liquid, while Horace clung to her and wept.

Nine months to the day, as the crows darkened the sky and filled the night’s silence with their broken songs, Clarella took her first breath and screamed.

As her parents doted on her, Clarella’s eyes were always darting, staring, and then looking away in alarm. Horace always dismissed it and insisted that she would eventually settle down, but he would never truly know how wrong he was.

Clarella knew they were nearby, always watching with those piercing white eyes, so she gave them names. “Hello Griff,” she waved as the demon rounded the corner, dragging its claws along the wall. Griff growled, its grin glinting in the sunlight, and sank into the carpet with a light hiss.
 
-- JD Hickey, November 2012

Les Mensonges Delicieux

I really need to tell more stories in French. I really, really do. In Quebec, there are just more opportunities to tell if I start telling in French and, if I play my cards right, I could become the Jim Corcoran of storytelling.

So a few months ago, André Lemelin asked me to take part in an evening of storytelling at the Maison de la culture de Villeray, Saint-Michel, Parc-Extension. It was a small crowd, but the stage was very nice. I was honored to share the stage with André Lemelin, Patti Warnock, Bernard Antoun, and Jacques Pasquet.

Unfortunately, the show was not being recorded. But at the last minute, I decided to try the recording app on my phone so I would at least have a record of it. It turns out, the recording quality wasn't so bad!

When I rehearsed this story, I had it all down perfectly. But of course, the presence of an audience and a microphone challenged my composure, so my telling isn't as smooth as I would have liked it to me. I really need more practice telling in French, and I need to slow my pacing down so I can mentally prepare to say each sentence properly so I don't auto-correct so much. Practice, practice: that's how you get to Carnegie Hall.

So with just a bit of editing for sound quality, here's the recording from that night.

Les Mensonges Delicieux (7:34) told by JD Hickey

Story: Zahir and the Well

Back in 2009, during the Festival Internationale du Conte du Quebec, I went to see Alan Shain and Kim Kilpatrick tell stories at the Westmount Library. Alan told a story that I found especially moving and I suddenly remembered it this past spring. I hunted about for the story and found several different versions, and my memory of Alan's story was pretty spotty, so I reconstructed the story as best as I could.

I contacted Alan in the spring and asked if I could retell his story. He said that he and Kim had reconstructed the story from the traditional Sufi story called Half Boy, but as long as I gave he and Kim credit, that should be fine. Thank you Alan and Kim!

This past week, I was performing at Kuper Academy High School in Kirkland, Quebec. I managed to record 3 of the 4 shows (the recording application crashed on one of the shows), so here's my recording of Zahir and the Well. I'm telling it to a class room of 12-13 year old kids who were very quiet during the show and very loud at the end.

I'd also like to dedicate this story to my friend Brynn who told me she was very moved by this tale when I told it for the first time in August 2012.

Zahir and the Well (5:13) told by JD Hickey

A Story of Loss and Comfort

Today is Halloween, which for most people is a time to dress up, visit or be visited by the neighbors, and share tricks and treats. An odd consequence to this holiday is that this is one of the few times when you actually meet your neighbors!

There is also another side to Halloween or Samhain as the modern Neo-Pagans refer to it: this is a day when you take a moment to remember loved ones that have passed on,  either in the past year or longer.

When I lost my Dad back in the summer of 2007, it was unbelievably difficult to deal with, but it's something that we all need to face at some point: the loss of a parent. His death kickstarted something I called the Year of the Firsts: the first Christmas without Dad, the first New Year without Dad, Dad's first birthday without him, my first birthday without Dad, etc. The good news is that as the year progresses, it gets easier to accept the idea that he has passed on. Of course, I still miss my Dad and there are  days when I tear up at his memory (like right now, for instance).

After my Year of the Firsts, I told this story at festival and it felt right. Whenever I hear of a friend who has lost someone, I've been wanting to share this story because it brought me a great deal of comfort with  my own sense of loss. I wanted to wait until I had a live version of this telling, but I had to settle for a studio recording instead. I'm hoping to have some music composed to add to it soon.

On this Halloween, I wish you pleasant memories of your lost loved ones and remind you that you do not grieve alone.

The Hunter's Son (4:45) told by JD Hickey

October: Anti-Bullying Month

Because October is National Anti-Bullying Month, I am reposting this Raven story. In this tale, Raven not only faces down several bullies, but he learns about courage for the first time, which is what everyone needs to be able to deal with bullies.

There is a great focus in the media on bullying in the schoolyard and how it affects children. While this is very real and very true, bullying doesn't end when school is out for summer. We face bullies in our families, in our friends, at work, at play, and even within ourselves. Recently, a news piece arose where a local TV anchor had to deal with a stranger who attempted to bully her using her weight as a weapon. Here's how she dealt with that.

There are many, many Raven tales where he defends the people against one threat or another, but I like this particular story because Raven has moment where bullying fills his heart with fear for the first time. Dealing with that fear is how we must face our own bullies so that they do not control who we are or what we can accomplish.

Note: the drumming this piece is by The Dragon Ritual Drummers and is used with permission.

A Sample Clip from Northern Exposure

Riding with the Winds

So... I don't know if you remember, but back in early June of 2012, I had the immense honour of appearing with Concerto Della Donna in McGill's Pollack Hall during the Northern Exposure fundraiser. I was called to take part as the storyteller to tell the classic Norwegian tale East of the Sun and West of the Moon (image taken from çizgili masallar zaman blog, artist Mercer Mayer). The hall was almost filled to capacity with over 500 people in attendance.

This was the most ambitious thing I have ever attempted and even up to hours before the show itself, I wasn't sure I was up to the task. Fortunately, everything went smoothly and we got through it. My heartfelt thanks to maestro Iwan Edwards for his infinite patience and passionate guidance, and to my beloved Sarah for calming me down and helping rehearse the piece until I got the timing right.

Then this past weekend, I was sent the recording of the entire show, including the piece I worked on with the choir. Due to restrictions with rights and such, I can't post the whole thing, but I can post a clip (which is 2 minutes of the 30-minute piece). In this piece, the heroine is traveling with the East Wind in the hopes of finding her prince who is trapped in the castle that is East of the Sun and West of the Moon.

In this clip, you can hear myself telling the tale along with the 17-member Concerto Della Donna. On Stradivarius violin is Caroline Chéhadé and on cello is Michael Nicolas. The piece was composed by Marie-Claire Saindon and the maestro was Iwan Edwards.

A Bard's Lament

This is an imagined conversation that started with an actual, true-to-life statement.

"So you're a storyteller? That doesn't sound very difficult. You just get up there and tell stories, right?"

ME: "There's more to storytelling than just telling stories. A good storyteller makes it look easy, but there are many techniques being used to ensure a solid performance. You don't realize how difficult it can be until you get locked in a room with a bad storyteller."

THEM: "Doesn't sound that tough to me. I'm sure I could do it. How hard could it be to tell a couple of stories?"

== Freaky Dream Sequence Music ==

ME: "I guess you're right. It's like being a musician, right? All you need is to strum a guitar and anyone can be a musician, right? Money for nuthin' and the chicks are free, as the song goes."

THEM: "Well no... that's not true. It takes years of training, dedication, and practice to learn how to play guitar. And it's not enough to play guitar, you also need to learn specific guitar playing styles like jazz, folk, rock, etc. The guitar is a powerful instrument and not just anyone can just play it well. That's ridiculous."

ME: "Oh... sorry. Right. Learning an instrument is different. Okay... so it's like being a writer, right? Anyone can sit a write a novel and get it published. It doesn't take any special skill to write a book. Anyone can write an interesting story and get published, right?"

THEM: "That's crazy talk! To be a successful writer, you need to understand the components of literature, grammar, and style! And it takes an enormous amount of dedication and discipline to just finish a story that you start, and even more courage to actually commit yourself to developing an idea into a creative work of art! Just being able to write a grocery list, an email, or a post-it-note to buy more milk is a world away from being a true writer. Are you insane?"

ME: "Of course. How naive of me. It's not a good comparison. I guess it would be like being an actor, right? You just memorize a few lines, put on some fancy clothes, and enjoy the limelight of public adoration. How hard can it be to be an actor?"

THEM: "What?!? Being an actor is more than just memorizing lines! You have to understand body language, voice projection, and portray realistic emotion on cue! It takes years of study, training, and more than a little competitive drive to succeed as an actor. To truly appreciate the theatrical art-form, you need to understand props, lighting, pacing, projection, movement, and emotive inflection! Acting is a very complicated art-form!"

ME: "Okay... I've got it now. It's like being a public speaker, like a politician. To deliver a good speech, you just need to review your speech a few times and everyone will hang off your every word, right?"

THEM: "Where have you been living... Under a rock? It doesn't matter how well-written a speech is: a bad delivery of that speech will destroy it. A talented public speaker needs to connect to his audience by his presence, his use of eye-contact, the clarity of his voice, and his innate knowledge of the speech. Just reading a speech will bore an audience to sleep, but the speaker who knows his speech intimately can move his listeners to tears or to battle. Speeches have been made or broken by the person who delivered them."

ME: "Well geez... I don't know. I guess storytelling relies of aspects of all those disciplines. Being a storyteller takes dedication, training, an understanding of voice, stance, body language, pacing, and really understanding your story. There are different storytelling styles, depending on the audience, and the storyteller needs to study them completely to be able to craft and deliver his story in a way that is compelling and entertaining to his audience. Storytelling is an art-form as complex and rich as acting, music, dance, writing, and public speaking."

THEM: "What? No... You just get up and tell a story. What's so hard about that? It's easy and any idiot can do it."

Original vs Retellings

Actually, I had this odd conversation last night at the finals of the Slamtastiqe Slam Tellings. An audience member at the Slam Telling was curious to know which stories were original or retellings. "If I were a judge, that would definitely influence my scoring. I mean, original work has to count more than simply retelling someone else's story, right?"

The judges are asked to score the tellers as follows: 3 points for content, 3 points for delivery, 3 points for performance, and 1 point for awesomeness. The event isn't a Creative Writing class: Storytelling is a performance art, therefore how the teller embodies the story he/she is telling is what really matters.

Even if the story is being retold, it's being retold in the performance style of the teller. That means the teller should have exercised their creativity is making the story their own,  which often means rewrites and restructurings of the story. Timing, gestures, voice, and sheer presence is what carries the story to the six senses of the listener. How the story is told is just as important, if not more, than if the story is an original work or a retelling.

Sure, it's impressive when storytellers write their own stories, but because storytelling is a performance art, how it is crafted, told, and embodied determines the quality of the performance. Since every story is a variation of the 7 basic plot-lines, even if the storyteller writes it from scratch, it's going to reuse something that someone else has written.

Back on June 5th, when I performing with Concerto Della Donna, I had to rewrite sections of the classic Norwegian folktale "East of the Sun, West of the Moon" so that it would work with the overall performance. A friend who was sitting in the audience, who has seen me tell stories for many years, was able to pick out certain aspects of the story as being my own additions because he recognized my style. And still, he was surprised at some other changes that were not part of the original story.

Montreal Fringe 2012

So it's official: TaelStrum (my storytelling band) will be in the Montreal Fringe Festival this year. Here are the dates:


June 8th, 8pm and 10pm
June 9th, 8pm and 10pm
June 12th, 8pm and 10pm
June 18th, 8pm
June 20th, 8pm and 10pm
June 21st, 8pm and 10pm
June 23rd, 8pm

Ame-Art: collectif des Artistes de la galerie Mile-End
5345, avenue du Parc
Montreal, QC H2V 4H9
Purchase tickets online

BTW, did you know that TaelStrum was named one of the Best Spoken Word Acts in the Best of Montreal 2012 survey?

May: Birthday Month of Doooom!

Including my own birthday (May 4th), I know so many people having birthdays this month that a friend has titled this month to be the Birthday Month of Dooooom!

But today specifically is my friend LC's birthday, so to honor the old man, I've decided to post a recording of his telling of the classic Rudyard Kipling story called The Cat Who Walked By Himself. The recording volume is a little off because LC kept moving in front of the microphone, but he comes in quite clearly all the same.

The Cat Who Walked By Himself -- Told by Laurent Castellucci (16:32 minutes)

Chapter 2: The Cleansing River

Previously: Chapter 1: The Watching Woods

Emilie sat bolt upright, her chest heaving and bathed in sweat. For a moment, she wasn't sure where she was, but as she struggled to bring her breathing under control, she took in her surroundings. She reached out for her dagger and it was right where she left it, which calmed her down somewhat. The dream-images were already fading from her mind's eye, but they still terrified her in their vividness. She instinctively looked at her hands, expecting to see them covered in red-black blood, but she only saw sweat.

She pushed the dream away and began her morning routine, but her tide of her thoughts continued to be washed over by what she saw, heard, and felt. She knew she could only speak to Elder Khaman about her dream, not only because of his warning that morning months ago, but because she felt that he would take her seriously and provide the best insight.

Emilie grabbed some dried deer meat and some bitter-root, onions, and wild carrots, along with an assortment of her favorite herbs. She was relieved to see the sky was overcast, so it wouldn't be too cold today. All the same, she pulled on her warmest boots and mittens, just in case the weather turned colder. She stepped out into the morning light and took a deep breath, the frigid air shaking out the last of the night's cobwebs from her brain. Quietly, while the rest of her tribe were slowly waking up, she slipped out into the woods, heading for the river.

In some ways, Emilie felt more at home in the woods than in the village. The ancient trees seemed to embrace her, protecting her, and she in turn shared her life force with the forest. She ran her hand along the rough bark of each tree as she passed by, taking a moment to wonder at what history coursed just beneath its surface. With every step, the still-quiet of the forest was slowly drowned-out by the roar of the river until she finally stepped out beyond the tree line.

The raw power of the white water overwhelmed her for a moment, a moment that she savored. Carefully, she made her way to the edge of the shoreline, removed her mittens, and dipped her warm hands into the icy cold current. The shock of the cold water was brief, but exhilarating and she could feel the raw power of the river as rushed past her hands. Suddenly, she splashed the ice-cold water from her hands into her face and the shock sent her reeling into the present moment as the rivulets of ice water poured from her face, down her neck, and warmed to the heat of her skin.

She returned to the safety of the shoreline, sat against a snow-covered stone, and fell into a deep meditative trance. She became part of the landscape, and in turn, the land embraced her. She listened to everything around her and she watched, taking it all in. In that moment, she dwelled with the powers of the earth.

It was at that moment that she felt something new, something that seemed out of place. There was a tremor that coursed through the earth, jostling her from her trance. Looking up the trees, she saw an impossibly large shadow that danced between the branches and trunks. She peered past the boulder and saw it  emerge from the trees on the opposite shore. The ancient boughs cracked and broke, splintering into thousands of shards of ice and wood beneath its monstrous hands as it parted them and then stepped out onto the shore, sending stone, wood, and water flying in all directions.

The Frost Giant took a moment to look up and down the river, its eyes squinting in the bright light of morning. Emilie watched in fear and fascination as river water gushed through its fingers as it lifted its cupped hands up and splashed the water over its head. The Frost Giant shook its head, sending a torrent of snow and water in all directions. It reached down to a huge boulder so that it could sit by the raging waters. Emilie noticed that it only took a few seconds before the boulder was covered in frost, making it look like an enormous snow-throne supporting the giant's back.

Emilie took all this in while she watched and listened. She knew she should flee to the safety of the village, but she could not take her eyes off this enormous creature. The very few times she saw a Jotun, it was raging and bellowing, filled with hate and sowing destruction. But now, this Jotun seemed peaceful, quiet, even gentle in its own way. Emilie scanned the open space between herself, the rampaging river, the reposing giant, and the safety of the woods: there was no way she could move from her spot and not be seen by the behemoth. She closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing so that her fear did not cloud her thoughts quite so much.

When she opened them again, she witnessed worlds colliding, breaking down the fabric of all that she thought she understood. Her knees buckled and she grabbed wildly at the stone she hid behind for purchase, but the slickness of the stone betrayed her and she fell painfully down to the hard ground. All the while, she never took her eyes away from what she saw, just in case it disappeared from sight and she would need to contend with the idea that she had gone mad.

Sitting cross-legged in the snow, not ten feet from the Frost Giant, was Elder Khaman. In his left hand was his staff, leaning across his shoulder. In his right hand was the leg of a deer wrapped in cloth. This deer leg had enough meat on it to feed a family in their tribe for a week, but he held out to the Frost Giant and waited. The Frost Giant gently took the deer leg and set it between them.

At first, it seemed like the two of them simply stared at each other. Sometimes Khaman gestured with his staff and the Frost Giant shifted and traced shapes in the snow with its hands, but it didn't get up, nor did it move towards Elder Khaman. Both continued to sit 10 feet from each other as the trees swayed and the white water rushed. The river made so much noise that it took some time before the full weight of what was happening crashed through Emilie's consciousness.

They were talking.

Next: Chapter 3: The Secret


This work by John David Hickey is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at www.johndavidhickey.ca.

Chapter 1: The Watching Woods

This story is based on events that took place at the Northern Lights Gathering festival in February 2012. My thanks to the organizers of that festival for being so inspired and inspirational.

They called her the Wolf Girl, which sounds like a compliment, but it wasn't really. Emilie was still and shy like the wolf who slides effortlessly through the trees, blending between the snow white and bark brown, but her eyes took you all in. She watched and she listened. It was her way, but it made the other children nervous, and nervous children will tease and taunt. That was their way, too.

Emilie pulled her hat down over her ears and tightened her scarf as she strained to hear what Elder Khaman was saying over the chilled winter air. It was the season of the the Games when a champion would be selected from the best of the tribe and the village pups crowded around him, eager to gain favor and maybe learn a trick that would give them an edge over the others. Ellie watched and listened, but she never competed. It always made her feel too exposed, too vulnerable. But still, she knew that Elder Khaman had much to share, so she listened.

Elder Khaman was recounting the tales of Games gone by. He had faced many winters already, roaring in the morning stillness to keep the Frost Giants at bay. He had even faced the chilling presence of the Frost Giants on more than a few occasions and lived to tell the tale, which he reveled in now around the morning fire.

" Emilie!" he called out. Elder Khaman never called her Wolf Girl, although the other children were already whispering her name. "Come and join us by the fire. You are always welcome."

"That would mean she would actually do something," sneered Phoenix. He was highly regarded as the best and brightest among the young warriors. The people were already placing bets over how he would do in this year's Games. "Let the Wolf Girl hide behind her hat so that we can keep the Frost Giants from disturbing her sleep."  Emilie's face flushed, her rage barely contained. She turned to walk away when Khaman voice cut through the wind like a blade shattering ice.

"Every member of this tribe is important, vital to its survival,"  Elder Khaman roared. "It may not be  Emilie's way to toss the spear or run barefoot in the snow, but I've seen many of you beg her for the herbs that keeps the rattle out of your lungs when the winter chill settles in your bones, so she deserves your respect."

His voice softened and stretched out his hand. "Please  Emilie... join us. The Jotun are always watching and we are always stronger as a tribe than we are alone."

Suddenly, Khaman stiffened, his eyes darted as he scanned the trees. Emilie felt it too: her stomach tightened and her feet tingled, wanting to flee. Khaman gestured to the others to stay by the fire and his heavy feet cracked through the crust as he strode past  Emilie, facing the trees. She could no longer see the snowy foundation of the forest floor, but she peered out past the shaman's furs as he stretched out his arms and whispered in a language she did not know. Perhaps it was the magical language of shamans that keep the tribe safe, perhaps he was appealing to the generous nature of the forest spirits, requesting protection.  Emilie tried to see what hid itself behind the wooden wall of frost-covered trees, and although she saw nothing, she could feel eyes upon her. She clutched his robes ever-tighter.

"Back to the fire, young-one," whispered Khaman firmly. "Do not speak of what you have seen today, if anything. Watch, listen, but speak only to me if you have anything to say."

Emilie gathered up her courage and turned her back on the woods, even though she could still feel a gaze upon her. The fire warmed her skin, but her thoughts were still troubled and sent shivers through her composure.

Chapter 2: The Cleansing River


This work by John David Hickey is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at www.johndavidhickey.ca.

Oinklets Three Be a Classical Intellectual Feast

Just in case you ever wondered if Fairy Tales could ever be intellectually or literarily challenging.

Grieving the Loss of a Beloved Pet

Whenever I have a friend who loses a beloved pet, I copy/past this story to them. When I lost my cat Dinger a few years ago, this story brought me much comfort.

The Rainbow Bridge
- Author Unknown

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.

When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge.

There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by.

The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together...

Lex & the Devil: a Rockstar Moment

Last weekend, I was hosting a fundraiser where we had magicians, musicians, dancers, singers, and storytellers. Happily, my friend Scarlet recorded TaelStrum's telling of Lex & the Devil.

My favorite moment occurs at 4:50 when I get my Rock Star experience where I realize the crowd is telling the story with me, so I go quiet and let them say it as a group. It was golden.

STOP SOPA Blackout

Why Canadians should care about SOPA/PIPA