We are stories. We walk through a narrative of inter-dependent connections, as individuals, outwards to family, community, town, city, county, nation. We move through time at varying speeds, cogs of unimaginable complexity grinding against other cogs of unimaginable complexity. It’s no wonder there are stories, no wonder we create them. Imagine ‘us’ as a bell curve. The majority inhabit the average, tales that barely move the outer dials from cradle to grave (even if they impact the people closest to us with bumper-car brutality). Some of us are edge-dwellers, purposefully or by accident. Our stories are randomly plucked from obscurity to flame briefly as highlights on the rim of the curve, human solar flares. The reasons are many. It may be for hereditary reasons – descended from kings. We might invent or create something that raises our profile – discoverer of penicillin – or become famous or infamous against our will; our stoic refusal to give up a seat, taking five shots to kill a musician outside the Dakota. Our story may last a decade, a century, a millenium, imprinted on the world around us. And some stories don’t belong on the curve at all.