The Last Human Storyteller
What happens when machines learn to tell our stories?
One day, a machine may tell a story better than I can. It may remember every word, never stumble, and never forget a character's name. But will it ever know what it means to be human?
It's a question I've found myself pondering more and more recently, usually when I should be doing something considerably more productive, like answering emails, rehearsing a story, or trying to remember where on earth I've left my reading glasses. Again.
We are living in rather extraordinary times. Technology is advancing at a pace that makes my head spin, and believe me, I've spent enough years travelling around the world to know a thing or two about feeling disorientated. Every time I turn on my computer, there seems to be another announcement about artificial intelligence. Machines that write books, compose music, create artwork, generate videos, and now speak with voices so convincing that you might struggle to distinguish them from the real thing.
And somewhere amongst all this technological wizardry sits a slightly bewildered Scottish storyteller, wondering what it all means for those of us who have spent our lives standing in front of people, opening our mouths, and hoping something vaguely entertaining comes out.
Because storytelling is changing.
Or perhaps, more accurately, the way we create and deliver stories is changing.
But does that mean storytelling itself is changing?
And if it is, what happens to the storyteller?
A Machine That Never Forgets
I have been a professional storyteller and performer for around fifteen years now. During that time, I've performed in theatres, schools, medieval fairs, Highland gatherings, historic buildings, and more unusual locations than I care to remember. I've travelled thousands upon thousands of kilometres, crossed oceans, encountered extraordinary people, and told stories to audiences ranging from a handful of curious souls to hundreds of enthusiastic faces.
And do you know something?
I've made mistakes.
Oh, good heavens, have I made mistakes.
I've forgotten names, muddled timelines, completely lost my place, and occasionally found myself halfway through a tale wondering where on earth I was going with it.
There have been moments when a character has mysteriously changed names halfway through a performance. Times when a carefully planned dramatic pause has been interrupted by an enthusiastic child announcing they need the toilet. And moments when my brain has apparently decided to pack its bags, leave the building, and abandon me entirely.
Yet somehow, the story continues.
Sometimes those mistakes become the most memorable moments of the entire performance.
A machine, on the other hand, could theoretically deliver the same story flawlessly a thousand times. Every word perfectly positioned, every pause precisely calculated, every character remembered, and every dramatic moment executed with mechanical accuracy.
It might even deliver it in my own voice.
Now there's a rather unsettling thought.
Imagine sitting at home, enjoying a cup of tea, while somewhere on the other side of the world a computer-generated version of me is performing a Scottish folktale to an audience.
It has my accent, my mannerisms, perhaps even my terrible jokes.
And unlike the real me, it doesn't need feeding, doesn't complain about uncomfortable hotel beds, and won't spend half the night wondering whether it remembered to pack its socks.
From a purely practical perspective, that sounds rather marvellous.
But would it actually be me?
Of course not.
It would be an imitation. Perhaps an extraordinary imitation, but an imitation nonetheless.
And I think that distinction matters far more than we currently realise.
The Rise of the Artificial Storyteller
We are already witnessing the beginnings of a significant transformation in creative industries.
Artificial intelligence can produce written stories in seconds. Give it a theme, a setting, a handful of characters, and a particular style, and it can generate something that resembles a perfectly respectable piece of fiction.
Sometimes the results are rather impressive.
Sometimes they're complete and utter nonsense.
And occasionally they're so beautifully written that you find yourself staring at the screen thinking, "Well, that's rather annoying. I've been wrestling with that paragraph for three hours."
Synthetic voices are becoming increasingly sophisticated. Audiobooks can be narrated without a human narrator ever stepping into a recording studio. Digital characters can speak, respond, and perform. Virtual personalities can entertain audiences without having ever drawn breath.
For someone like me, who has been exploring the world of voice-over work and narration, this raises some interesting questions.
Why would someone hire a human narrator when a machine can produce an entire audiobook in a fraction of the time?
Why commission a writer when artificial intelligence can generate pages of content before you've finished your morning coffee?
Why employ a performer when a digital character can entertain people around the clock?
These aren't imaginary concerns. They're questions that writers, actors, narrators, musicians, and performers are already confronting.
And I don't think we should dismiss them.
Technology has a long history of transforming professions. Some changes bring extraordinary opportunities. Others create genuine difficulties for the people whose livelihoods depend upon their craft.
But I also think we need to be careful about confusing the ability to reproduce something with the ability to understand it.
A machine can produce a story about heartbreak.
But has it ever had its heart broken?
It can describe the loneliness of travelling through the night, arriving in a strange town, and sitting alone in a hotel room.
But has it ever experienced that silence?
It can write beautifully about friendship, grief, love, embarrassment, fear, and hope.
But does it know what those things feel like?
Perhaps one day our understanding of artificial intelligence will change dramatically. I'm not foolish enough to pretend I know what the future holds, or that I can definitively answer every question about machine intelligence.
But right now, there is a difference between generating a convincing description of an experience and having lived through it.
And for me, storytelling has always been deeply connected to the experience of being alive.
Eye to Eye, Heart to Heart, Mind to Mind
I've spoken before about something that sits at the very centre of my work.
Genuine human connection.
Eye to eye, heart to heart, mind to mind.
Those aren't simply pleasant words to put on a website or something to trot out when discussing the importance of storytelling.
They are what I believe storytelling actually is.
When I stand before an audience, I'm not simply delivering a collection of words arranged into an entertaining sequence. I'm communicating with people. Real people.
People who have arrived carrying their own experiences, worries, memories, expectations, and emotions.
Some are excited to be there. Some have been dragged along by a partner or family member. Some are exhausted. Some are distracted. Some have decided before I've even opened my mouth that storytelling is going to be dreadfully boring.
And my job is to reach them.
Not simply to speak at them.
To reach them.
There is a tremendous difference.
I watch their faces. I notice when someone leans forward. I see the little smile creeping across the face of someone who was determined not to enjoy themselves. I notice when a child becomes completely absorbed in the tale, or when an adult suddenly looks rather thoughtful because something in the story has stirred an old memory.
Sometimes I change the story because of what I'm seeing.
A joke might be extended. A dramatic moment might be allowed to linger. A character might become a little more ridiculous because the audience is clearly enjoying their foolishness.
Or I might abandon an entire section because I can feel that the audience needs something different.
That's not a failure of preparation.
That's performance.
That's the conversation taking place between the storyteller and the people listening.
And sometimes, wonderfully, that conversation happens without a single word being spoken by the audience.
A glance.
A smile.
A raised eyebrow.
A shared silence.
There are moments when you can almost feel the atmosphere in a room change.
The audience stops being a collection of individuals and becomes something else entirely.
A gathering.
A community.
People sharing the same imagined world for a few precious moments.
Could artificial intelligence learn to recognise those signals? Almost certainly. Technology is already capable of analysing expressions, voices, and patterns of behaviour, and it will undoubtedly become more sophisticated.
Could it adapt a performance in response?
Quite possibly.
But would that be the same as two human beings recognising something of themselves in one another?
That's the question that interests me.
Because connection isn't simply about responding correctly.
It's about being present.
The Education of a Timid Wee Beastie
Many years ago, when I was starting out as a performer on Edinburgh's Royal Mile, I was, to put it politely, a rather timid wee beastie.
Crowd building terrified me.
The thought of approaching strangers and persuading them to stop what they were doing and watch me perform seemed like a particularly cruel form of punishment.
Yet the streets became one of the greatest classrooms I could ever have imagined.
I learned from other performers. Magicians, escapologists, living statues, street entertainers, and all manner of wonderfully eccentric individuals who understood something that no textbook could properly teach.
People.
How people behave.
How crowds form.
How attention shifts.
How laughter spreads.
How an audience can turn from indifferent to fascinated in a matter of seconds.
And how quickly you can lose them if you stop paying attention.
I learned through mistakes, embarrassment, rejection, and the occasional glorious success.
I learned what happened when a joke fell flat.
I learned how to recover when something went wrong.
I learned that sometimes the person you least expect to become involved in a performance turns out to be the very person who makes it extraordinary.
And over the years, much of that learning became instinctive.
Today, I can stand before a crowd and make decisions without consciously analysing every little thing I'm doing.
It's not because I possess some extraordinary gift.
It's because I've spent years learning, failing, adapting, and trying again.
And all those experiences have shaped the performer I am today.
Now imagine trying to explain all of that to a machine.
You could feed it thousands of recordings of street performances. Analyse audience reactions. Study timing, humour, crowd psychology, and improvisational techniques.
You could teach it to recognise patterns that took me years to understand.
It might even identify things I've never consciously noticed.
But would it understand the feeling of standing on the Royal Mile, desperately trying to persuade a handful of passing tourists that stopping to watch a nervous Scottish performer might be worth five minutes of their lives?
Would it know the peculiar mixture of terror and excitement that comes when the first stranger stops?
Would it understand the pride of finally holding a crowd that, moments earlier, hadn't even known you existed?
Those experiences didn't simply teach me how to perform.
They changed me.
And perhaps that is something we shouldn't be so quick to surrender.
The Beauty of Getting It Wrong
We seem to be developing an extraordinary obsession with perfection.
Perfect photographs.
Perfect videos.
Perfectly edited voices.
Perfectly constructed sentences.
Perfect presentations, perfect lighting, perfect everything.
Even our social media feeds are filled with carefully curated versions of lives that appear considerably more organised and attractive than the messy reality most of us inhabit.
And now artificial intelligence offers the possibility of removing even more of those little imperfections.
But I wonder whether we're in danger of polishing away the very things that make us interesting.
Some of the greatest moments I've experienced as a performer have come from things going completely wrong.
An unexpected interruption.
A forgotten line.
A child asking a question so wonderfully inappropriate that the entire audience collapses into laughter.
A member of the crowd offering a comment that sends the story in an entirely different direction.
Those moments are impossible to plan.
And that's what makes them magical.
I remember countless performances where the most memorable part of the experience wasn't the carefully rehearsed story, but something that happened between the story and the audience.
A spontaneous exchange.
A moment of shared silliness.
An unexpected emotional response.
Something entirely human.
Now, I'm sure someone will point out that artificial intelligence can generate unexpected responses too.
And they'd be correct.
But there's a difference between an unexpected output and a shared human experience.
When I make a mistake on stage, the audience knows I've made a mistake.
They see me recognise it.
They watch me decide what to do next.
Sometimes they laugh with me.
Sometimes they encourage me.
And occasionally, bless them, they pretend not to have noticed.
For that brief moment, we're not simply storyteller and audience.
We're people helping one another through an unexpected situation.
There is vulnerability in that.
And vulnerability creates connection.
I wonder what happens when we begin removing vulnerability from everything we create.
Do we become better communicators?
Or do we simply become more polished and less interesting?
When a Voice Is More Than a Voice
As I've explored the possibilities of voice-over work, narration, and recording stories, I've become increasingly aware of how important the human voice is.
Not simply the words.
The voice itself.
Its texture.
Its rhythm.
Its imperfections.
The little hesitations and changes in tone that reveal something about the person speaking.
A voice can carry tremendous emotion.
Think about hearing the voice of someone you love after a long absence.
Or the voice of a parent telling you a story when you were a child.
Perhaps a grandparent whose stories you've never forgotten.
Often, it's not the exact words that remain with us.
It's the sound.
The warmth.
The familiarity.
The feeling of being safe, entertained, loved, or understood.
I suspect many of us would struggle to remember the precise wording of a bedtime story we heard decades ago.
But we might still remember the voice that told it.
And that's rather extraordinary when you think about it.
Now imagine a synthetic voice capable of reproducing that sound almost perfectly.
Would hearing it bring comfort?
For some people, perhaps it would.
For others, it might feel deeply unsettling.
I don't think there is one simple answer.
But it does raise questions about what we value in a voice.
Is it merely the sound?
Or is it the knowledge that somewhere behind those words is another human being who has lived, suffered, laughed, loved, and experienced the world?
When I narrate a story, I bring my own experiences into the performance, whether I consciously intend to or not.
The humour is influenced by the people I've met.
The sadness is informed by moments I've experienced.
The excitement comes from a lifetime of curiosity and adventure.
And occasionally, the slightly grumpy tone comes from having spent far too long sitting in an airport waiting for a delayed flight.
All of it becomes part of the voice.
Not just the accent.
The person.
And while technology may become extraordinarily good at recreating the sound of a human voice, I think we should remain thoughtful about the difference between hearing a voice and encountering the human being behind it.
The Stories We Inherit
There's another aspect of this conversation that concerns me, particularly as someone who spends much of his professional life sharing Scottish folklore, history, and traditional tales.
Our stories are more than entertainment.
They are cultural memory.
They carry fragments of the people who came before us.
Their beliefs, fears, humour, values, mistakes, and hopes.
A traditional story might survive hundreds of years, travelling from one generation to the next, changing slightly with every telling.
A grandmother tells it to her grandchildren.
A traveller carries it to another village.
A storyteller adds a little humour.
Another introduces a new character.
Someone forgets a detail, someone else invents one, and somehow the story continues.
It evolves.
Not because someone has carefully calculated the most effective narrative structure, but because living people have carried it forward.
And every teller leaves something of themselves behind.
That's one of the things I find most beautiful about traditional storytelling.
There is rarely one definitive version.
Stories grow and change with the people who tell them.
Now artificial intelligence offers extraordinary opportunities to preserve these traditions.
It can help us search archives, transcribe recordings, translate material, compare versions, and make forgotten stories accessible to people who might otherwise never encounter them.
That is genuinely exciting.
Imagine being able to explore collections of folklore from communities across the world, discovering connections between traditions and preserving material that might otherwise disappear.
Technology could become a tremendous ally in protecting our cultural heritage.
But there's a danger too.
If we allow machines to become the primary tellers of our traditions, do we risk separating the stories from the communities that gave them life?
A Scottish folktale is not simply a collection of words about a kelpie, a selkie, or some unfortunate soul who has wandered into the wrong fairy hill.
It's connected to a landscape.
A language.
A history.
A sense of humour.
A way of looking at the world.
And when a living storyteller shares that tale, they bring something of that cultural relationship into the telling.
Not because every storyteller must belong to the culture of every story they share, but because responsible storytelling involves curiosity, understanding, respect, and genuine engagement with the people and traditions behind the tale.
We should be using technology to strengthen those connections.
Not replace them.
Because once stories become nothing more than content to be generated, consumed, and forgotten, we risk losing something rather precious.
The Loneliness of a Digital World
There is an irony in all of this that I find difficult to ignore.
We have never been more technologically connected.
We can communicate instantly with people on the other side of the planet.
We can attend virtual gatherings, watch performances, participate in conversations, and share our lives with thousands of people without ever leaving our homes.
And yet genuine human connection can still feel remarkably elusive.
I've experienced both sides of this.
I've performed online, staring into a camera while attempting to create the same atmosphere I might find in a room filled with people.
It's a peculiar experience.
You tell a joke.
You pause.
And instead of hearing laughter, you stare at a little glowing light on your computer and hope that somewhere, someone is smiling.
Sometimes they are.
Sometimes they've wandered off to make a cup of tea.
And sometimes you discover that you've been speaking enthusiastically for several minutes while your microphone has been muted.
Technology certainly keeps us humble.
Yet online storytelling has also introduced me to wonderful people and communities around the world.
It has allowed stories to cross borders, reach isolated listeners, and connect people who might never otherwise have met.
And I value that enormously.
So I'm not suggesting that digital storytelling is somehow less meaningful simply because it happens through a screen.
Far from it.
The important element is not necessarily whether we're standing in the same room.
It's whether there are real people connecting through the experience.
A storyteller in Canada can share a tale with someone in Australia, Scotland, or South Africa, and a genuine connection can still take place.
The technology becomes the bridge.
Not the relationship itself.
And I think that distinction is going to become increasingly important as artificial intelligence finds its way into more of our daily interactions.
We must be careful not to mistake convenience for companionship.
Or responsiveness for understanding.
Or the appearance of connection for the experience of being truly known.
Perhaps the Machine Isn't the Enemy
Now, before anyone imagines me standing on a windswept Scottish hillside, shaking my fist at the heavens and declaring war upon the machines, I should probably make something clear.
I'm not against artificial intelligence.
Quite the opposite.
I find much of it fascinating.
I've experimented with it, explored its possibilities, and discovered ways it can help with research, writing, planning, promotion, and the seemingly endless administrative responsibilities that come with running a creative business.
And if artificial intelligence can help me spend less time wrestling with paperwork and more time actually telling stories, then I shall welcome it with open arms.
Preferably while it also sorts out my emails and locates those missing reading glasses.
There are tremendous possibilities here.
A storyteller could use AI to explore historical sources, develop educational resources, improve accessibility, or introduce traditional tales to audiences who might otherwise never encounter them.
A performer with a disability might discover new ways to express their creativity.
Someone who has never had the confidence to write might find assistance in shaping a story they have carried inside themselves for years.
A small theatre company might create productions that previously would have been financially impossible.
And a lonely person, unable to attend a live event, might find genuine enjoyment in an interactive digital story.
We shouldn't dismiss those possibilities simply because the technology makes us uncomfortable.
But neither should we accept every new development without questioning what it means.
Technology should serve humanity.
Not the other way around.
And perhaps the most important question isn't whether artificial intelligence can tell stories.
Clearly, it can.
The question is what role we want it to play in a world where storytelling has always been one of the ways human beings understand one another.
Should it replace the storyteller?
Or should it help the storyteller reach further?
Should it imitate human creativity?
Or should it provide tools that allow more people to discover their own?
Should we use it to produce an endless supply of perfectly constructed content?
Or to create more opportunities for meaningful human experiences?
Those are choices we are making right now.
And I think they deserve considerably more thought than simply asking whether the latest piece of technology is faster, cheaper, or more efficient.
What Are We Actually Paying For?
There is another uncomfortable question here, and it's one that those of us who make our living through creative work cannot afford to ignore.
What exactly are people paying for when they hire a storyteller?
Are they paying for words?
If that's all they're buying, then perhaps we should be worried.
Words have become extraordinarily easy to produce.
Are they paying for a voice?
Again, technology is rapidly changing what that means.
Are they paying for entertainment?
Well, there is certainly no shortage of entertainment available at the touch of a button.
But I would argue that when someone hires a professional storyteller, they are buying something much more complex.
They are investing in an experience.
A living, breathing person who can walk into a room and transform its atmosphere.
Someone who can engage with an audience, respond to unexpected situations, and make individuals feel that they are part of something special.
Someone who understands that the same story told to a room full of schoolchildren should not necessarily be delivered in exactly the same way to an audience attending a historical evening, a corporate gathering, or a Highland festival.
They're investing in experience, judgement, personality, and trust.
They're hiring a human being who knows how to make other human beings feel something.
And that, I believe, is where the future of live performance may become particularly interesting.
As artificial content becomes more common, perhaps genuine human experiences will become more valuable.
Perhaps audiences will increasingly seek out things that cannot be endlessly reproduced.
A live performance.
An intimate gathering.
A story told beside a fire.
A conversation with someone whose experiences are different from their own.
Not because the technology is incapable of entertaining them, but because people still want to feel connected.
And that might be one of the greatest opportunities facing storytellers, performers, and artists in the years ahead.
We should not simply be trying to compete with machines at producing content.
We should be reminding people why human experiences matter.
The Last Human Storyteller
I sometimes imagine a rather peculiar future.
A world where artificial intelligence has become so sophisticated that digital performers are everywhere.
Stories are generated instantly, personalised to individual tastes, and delivered by flawless synthetic voices.
Every listener receives precisely the kind of story they enjoy.
No awkward pauses.
No forgotten lines.
No unnecessary tangents.
No performer suddenly deciding to spend five minutes talking about something completely unrelated because someone in the audience has made an interesting comment.
Everything perfectly tailored.
Everything perfectly efficient.
And somewhere, perhaps in a small village hall, an old storyteller is preparing to perform.
His knees are a little troublesome.
His memory isn't quite what it used to be.
His voice occasionally cracks, and he has a tendency to wander off on tangents that have very little to do with the original tale.
He stands before a handful of people.
There are no holograms.
No elaborate digital effects.
No artificial voices.
Just an old storyteller and an audience.
He begins.
Perhaps he stumbles over the opening sentence.
Someone smiles.
He tells a joke that he's probably told a thousand times before.
A few people laugh.
Then he begins the story properly.
And slowly, something happens.
The room becomes quiet.
People lean forward.
A child stops fidgeting.
An elderly woman smiles because the tale reminds her of something her grandfather once told her.
For a little while, the outside world disappears.
There is only the story.
And the people sharing it.
Perhaps the storyteller forgets a name.
Perhaps he loses his place.
Perhaps he pauses for longer than he intended because a particular moment in the tale has reminded him of someone he loved.
And the audience waits.
Not because they have been programmed to wait.
But because they understand.
Because they recognise something of themselves in the person standing before them.
Because they are human.
And so is he.
I rather like that image.
Not because I believe it represents the inevitable future, but because it reminds me what I think is worth preserving.
We Have Always Needed Stories
Human beings have been telling stories for thousands of years.
Long before books, printing presses, radio, television, computers, or artificial intelligence, people gathered together and shared tales.
Around fires.
In homes.
At gatherings.
On journeys.
Stories helped us explain the world, remember our ancestors, pass on knowledge, confront our fears, and make sense of the strange business of being alive.
And throughout history, the methods of storytelling have changed.
We moved from oral traditions to written records.
From manuscripts to printed books.
From theatre to cinema.
From radio to television.
From live gatherings to digital platforms.
Every new development has changed how stories are created and shared.
Yet the human need for stories has remained.
And perhaps that should give us some comfort.
Artificial intelligence is another extraordinary development in that long history.
It will change things.
Some changes will be wonderful.
Others will be difficult.
Some creative professions will undoubtedly face significant challenges, and we should take those concerns seriously rather than dismissing them with cheerful promises that everything will somehow work itself out.
But I don't believe the arrival of artificial intelligence means the end of human storytelling.
I think it challenges us to remember what human storytelling actually means.
It asks us to consider whether creativity is simply the production of something new, or whether it also involves the experiences, intentions, relationships, and vulnerabilities of the person creating it.
It asks whether a perfect performance is necessarily a meaningful one.
And whether the ability to imitate human expression is the same as sharing a human experience.
Those are questions worth asking.
Not just for storytellers.
For all of us.
The Story Isn't Finished
I don't know what the world of storytelling will look like in twenty years.
Good heavens, I barely know what my own schedule will look like next Thursday.
Perhaps artificial intelligence will become an extraordinary creative partner.
Perhaps digital performers will become commonplace.
Perhaps audiences will happily enjoy stories told by machines alongside those told by human beings.
Perhaps entirely new forms of storytelling will emerge that we cannot yet imagine.
I suspect the future will be considerably more complicated than a simple battle between humans and technology.
And perhaps that's a good thing.
Because I don't particularly want to spend the rest of my career fighting the future.
I'd rather help shape it.
I'd rather explore how these extraordinary tools might allow us to preserve more stories, reach more people, and create more opportunities for human connection.
But I also want to defend the things that make storytelling worth doing in the first place.
The imperfections.
The spontaneity.
The vulnerability.
The laughter that catches you by surprise.
The unexpected tears.
The moment when an audience member approaches after a performance and tells you that a story reminded them of someone they loved.
The child who asks whether the dragon was real.
The elderly gentleman who shares a tale his grandfather used to tell.
The stranger who becomes a friend because, for a few moments, you inhabited the same imaginary world.
Those moments matter.
And they cannot be measured simply by how efficiently a story is delivered.
I've spent fifteen years learning that storytelling is not about standing in front of people and demonstrating how many words I can remember.
It's about making people feel something.
It's about listening as much as speaking.
It's about understanding that every audience is different, every performance is unique, and every person carries stories of their own.
It's about being present.
Eye to eye.
Heart to heart.
Mind to mind.
And perhaps, in a world increasingly filled with artificial voices, artificial images, and artificial experiences, that simple act of genuine human connection will become more important than ever.
One day, a machine may tell a story better than I can.
It may have a greater vocabulary, a flawless memory, and the ability to entertain millions of people simultaneously.
It may never stumble.
Never forget.
Never grow tired.
And perhaps it will produce stories of extraordinary beauty.
But I will still stand before an audience, with all my flaws, experiences, doubts, ridiculous tangents, and occasionally questionable jokes.
I'll still look into their faces.
I'll still listen for their laughter.
I'll still feel that wonderful little spark when a room full of strangers begins to share something together.
And I'll still tell my stories.
Not because I can tell them perfectly.
But because I'm human.
And so are the people listening.
And if there ever comes a day when I really am the last human storyteller, I hope someone will pull up a chair, put the kettle on, and stay for one more tale.
Because I've got a few stories left in me yet.
And I suspect you have too.
Calum Lykan is a Scottish storyteller, performer, public speaker, and voice artist with fifteen years of experience sharing stories across the world. From the streets of Edinburgh to international festivals, schools, and historic gatherings, he believes that the greatest magic in storytelling is not found in the words themselves, but in the connections they create.
Have Stories, Will Travel.
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