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The Weekdays are personified divine beings whose domain is stories. They exist to tell and to hear stories because that is their function. They are made of stories. All the stories that are, that have been, that ever will be. But even those who are made of stories are not immune to their power. When The Weekdays tell a particularly harrowing story of pain and suffering in Southern Nigeria, one of them decides to try something forbidden—to change the story. It is a decision that takes them (and the reader) into the story itself and into other stories too, on a journey of consequences and learning about themselves, their relationships and the nature and power of stories.
My story has a strange shape to it. It has a beginning and middle and, of course, I need not tell you that it has an end because it is the nature of all things to end, especially stories. But this story . . . well, it bunches up in places and twists upon itself in ways that no good story should. The sharpness of its arcs flare and wane in unexpected places because it is a story made of other stories.
The seven siblings sit in a place beyond the boundaries of space and time, where everything is made of stories. Even them. Especially them. People are made of stories too, but only the versions of their stories that they tell themselves. Curated, limited, incomplete. Many of the stories people tell themselves are lies layered on partially-perceived things to give their lives structure and meaning. The siblings that sit beyond sit true, for they are made of all the stories that were, that are, that are to come.
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