Throughout this series, we’ve looked at the power of stories from a myriad of angles: as mirrors, as therapy, food, escape, and as makers and shapers of our identities. We’ve seen that while narratives can cement problematic power structures both within and without, they also possess a unique capacity to dismantle them via our constant, conscious engagement with them. This final installment in the series moves beyond storytelling’s personal and neurological impacts to examine its tangible power as an engine for social change. From religious deconstructions to sport, economics to climate change, our conscious, critical engagement with storytelling is a powerful agent for reshaping our world.

Religious narratives demonstrate how foundational stories can be deconstructed to foster profound social progress. We grow up exposed to the beliefs and culture of our family and community, and while we can’t help but imbibe them, we can also make them our own. Author and trauma-informed coach Jamie Lee Finch exemplifies this trajectory, utilizing her deep immersion in evangelical theology to deconstruct its mechanisms of control from the outside. In her seminal work, You Are Your Own: A Reckoning with the Religious Trauma (2019), Finch meticulously dissects how doctrines of sin, patriarchy, and bodily purity function as narratives that inscribe shame and enforce subservience. She then applies this deconstruction to a practical toolkit for healing, blending somatic practices with critical analysis to help individuals separate their intrinsic self-worth from internalized dogma. Finch’s work empowers a growing community to reclaim their bodily autonomy and author their own identities, translating a personal reckoning with inherited beliefs into a community fostered by post-religious empowerment. Her work demonstrates how the very literacy gained within a controlling system can become the instrument for its transformation in the creation of new, self-determined narratives.

Oft considered a secular religion itself, even our most taken-for-granted modern mythology, that of sports, can be changed to challenge national identity and confront historical truth. Sports arenas often serve as theaters for nationalist myth-making, where the inspiring narratives of unity can at the same time obscure systemic injustices. The recent movement for racial justice has powerfully transformed this space. Following the murder of George Floyd in 2020, the Black Lives Matter movement was re-invigorated and athletes across leagues like the NBA and WNBA joined the fray by halting games, displaying calls for justice on their uniforms, and using media platforms to demand change. Their actions, particularly the WNBA’s dedicated stand against Atlanta political candidates that opposed the BLM movement, transformed the playing court into a platform for political reckoning. This bravery has a historical precedent, as seen by athletes like Jesse Owens, who issued a statement against anti-semitism in the 1936 Berlin Olympics in an attempt to boycott the games for excluding Jewish participants, and later, Jackie Robinson, who integrated Major League Baseball in 1947, further dismantling racial segregation in sports in the US. These athletes became living counter-narratives to the myth of the apolitical sports hero, forcing fans to confront issues of racial violence sitting under the surface of their national identity. Their storytelling through protest directly influenced public discourse and demonstrated what it means to be the change you wish to see.

Sports broadcasting itself is a storytelling feat, pitting heroes against underdogs, and framing athletic competition as an epic battle to deepen fan investment and commercial appeal. This narrative also primes the cultural stage for moments where sports collide with everyday life, creating ripples of change as we connect with the stories of their favourite athletes and teams. The 1936 Berlin Olympics are a standout example: The Nazi regime of the time intended for the games to be a global spectacle of racial supremacy and fascist order. American radio broadcaster NBC, among others, amplified the event’s dramatic scale. And into the story stepped African American athlete Jesse Owens, whose four gold medals became an unscripted plot twist that rippled across the globe. His legacy demonstrated that through sports, athletic accomplishments become stories of human truth, with our collective investment forming a powerful agent for change.

In Stories As Us, we explored the strategic use of story in the economic sphere, where narrative directly influences market behavior and corporate accountability. Modern consumers increasingly make purchasing decisions aligned with their values, a trend driven by accessible narratives about production. While we covered the concerning, identity-shaping aspects of this strategy when paired with the relentlessness of ‘mindless’ algorithmic content, the origins of Storybranding point to a uniquely human aspect of our capacity for change: empathy. 

Numerous studies in market research over the past 20 years have demonstrated that consumers’ willingness to pay a premium for fair trade items was significantly linked to their affective empathy, which is directly engaged by narrative. The Fair Trade and UTZ  movements harnessed this by sharing compelling stories about the farmers and artisans behind the products we consume, while ensuring ethical wages and safe working conditions. This narrative-driven empathy created market pressure for change, forcing corporations to adopt more transparent and ethical supply chains, with particular success in the coffee, tea, and cocoa industries since its inception in 2002. In this way, storytelling has positively influenced marketing and helped transform an anonymous global market into a network of human relationships, making ethical consumption a viable form of grassroots economic activism.

Speaking of activism… you didn’t think we’d get through Stories of Change without talking about climate change, did you? In the ever-pressing arena of climate change, narrative genres wrestle with the limits of imagination in inspiring action. For decades, climate fiction, or ‘cli-fi,’ has dominated the literary landscape, with dystopian visions like Mad Max: Fury Road illustrating a post-apocalyptic, resource-scarce future where ‘guzzoline’ is God and water is an earthly temptation. While such works effectively sound the alarm, their bleakness can risk fostering apathy and despair, a phenomenon psychologists term fatalism—or, you know—the Doomies^TM. 

The solarpunk genre emerged in the 2010s as its narrative complement. Solarpunk moves beyond alarmism to offer tangible, hopeful blueprints for the future. The Ministry for the Future (2020) by Kim Stanley Robinson envisages a world in which cryptocurrency makes carbon reduction more profitable than endless extraction, and the CO₂-absorbing power of plants is scaled to combat the destruction of the environment. Stories like this are not naive and often pull, like their hard sci-fi counterparts, from the frontiers of academic thinking to explore the gap between progress and possibility. By providing a detailed, desirable vision of a post-carbon world, solarpunk stokes the imagination, inspiring real-world design, policy, and grassroots initiatives. Have you guys heard of seaforestation? I’m obsessed.

The most transformative stories are those that bridge the gap between global issues and local experiences, driving us to action from the ground up. F(r)iction’s own Oceans Issue does this very thing, immersing the reader in stories from flooded futures and a watery moon orbiting among Saturn’s rings, to folklore of ancient water dragons and mermaids. A reader inspired by these tales alongside our features with marine biologists and ocean nonprofits may find themselves drawn to get involved—we hope!—because the emotional connection produced by good storytelling makes them care. This is the fundamental mechanism of stories for change: they translate complex ideas into emotional heavy hitters and real-world action. This viscerality is what F(r)iction aims for, each issue forming a constellation around storytelling, critical analysis, and empowered action. Our most recent issue tackles the theme of Fairytales, examining their traditional origins and their modern retellings alike to dissect their impact on culture across history. And my personal favourite, Monsters, deliciously dissects our preconceptions of the horror genre to confront what really scares us, and why.  

The power of stories culminates both in their telling and their capacity to be lived. When a religious narrative inspires a therapeutic revolution, an economic story alters a supply chain for the better, or a speculative vision fuels an environmental invention, stories become action. Stories are the tools with which we draft the next version of our world, proving that the future is not a fixed destination determined by who has the loudest voice, but a tale we choose to tell collectively, together. 

‘The Power of Stories’ is a limited blog series exploring the ways stories weave themselves into the fabric of our lives. It’s an invitation to reflect on how narratives—whether passed down through generations or splashed across the big screen—shape who we are, how we connect, and the worlds we imagine. Each post peels back a new layer of storytelling. To explore the series in its completion, start with our first installment, Stories as Mirrors.

Recommended Reading from F(r)iction

• ‘Beyond the Waterline’ by Lisa Beebe, F(r)iction Log
• ‘Conversion’ by Sara Kaplan-Cunningham, F(r)iction Log
• ‘Five Dystopian YA Books to Empower you in times of Political Uncertainty’ by Melissa Paulsen, F(r)iction Log
• ‘Recognizing Literacy as a Human Right’ by Carissa Villagomez, F(r)iction Log

I’ve long believed that stories make up the invisible architecture of our identities, beliefs, and societies. From the myths we inherit to the ads we consume, across time narratives have dictated what we desire, who we admire, and what we think is normal. Before we even learn to read and write, we inherit countless narratives from our environments. These begin with our family’s worldviews, often influenced by our country’s dominant religious and political ideologies, and shaped by the way history is constructed and passed down. 

What happens when we examine some of the stories we swallow whole? In ‘Stories As Us,’ I’ve pulled back the curtain on some of the modern stories shaping us in surprising ways–exploring how advertising molds our desires, how Hollywood and the military collaborate to sell heroism, and how marginalized voices are rewriting history to reclaim their place in the narrative. If storytelling shapes who we are, scrutinizing our stories provides an opportunity to choose not just the ones we retain and retell, but who we ultimately become in the process.

Repetition

The stories we repeat define us, for better and for worse. Advertising operates on this basis, seeding desire via carefully-crafted tales of transformation. A perfume commercial constructs a story about allure and power, while car advertisements sell fantasies of freedom and status. These microfictions shape our self-perception by linking consumption to identity. Who doesn’t want to be hot and high status? Plenty of us before we saw these advertisements, probably. But hey, anyway, buy this perfume!

Advertising is effective because it transforms us, the would-be consumers, into characters with aspirational plots. That’s great for selling products, but it has interesting implications for our identities and values. In Stories as Therapy, I talked about the monomyth as a journey of healing and self-development. Similarly, narrative-driven advertising frameworks, like Donald Miller’s Storybrand, also take us on a journey by repurposing the monomyth to generate sales. The customer (hero) has a problem that the company (mentor) guides them through by purchasing products (trials) to guarantee success (transformation). Customers become brand advocates when they return from their trial with their newly-gained wisdom: that company is great!

Don’t get me wrong–I’m not saying this journey need always be a perilous one. Sometimes I want to be sold a solution. I am a writer. I don’t know a thing about lawnmowers, but I need one for my home. In this context, I’m more than happy to be guided towards a purchase, in fact, I need it. But when advertising narratives replace introspection with consumption–as they often do in our fast-paced society–when I ponder too long on products being jammed into the chapter of the monomyth where our personal growth occurs–I’m not gonna lie, it kinda skeeves me out.

Normalization

Over the last decade or so, cultural backlash against “woke media” has revealed many of society’s taken-for-granted assumptions about stories. Increased diversity has confronted us with assumptions about which groups of people we think should portray which roles, and why–a welcome, and much overdue confrontation, if you ask me. 

Forced diversity proponents believe stories with diverse or divergent representations are too political, opposed to the fondly-remembered, bygone era of heroic stories with predominantly white, predominantly male leads which weren’t political at all. (Sure, Jan.) The challenge with this line of thinking is that it does nothing to examine the origin of these so-called non-political stories. Why do we assume that a story is apolitical just because it’s normal? What makes a story normal? Delving into these questions can reveal a great deal about the way we make meaning from the stories we’re exposed to, and how, oftentimes, normal doesn’t mean apolitical at all.

An intriguing example of this are the Hollywood-military partnerships that have occurred for decades to influence what we see in blockbuster entertainment. It turns out ‘White Guy Saves The World, With Guns’ is not the organically-occurring narrative phenomenon we might have believed was the case growing up. Marvel’s collaboration with the U.S. military—particularly in films like Captain America: The Winter Soldier—embeds pro-military narratives into its films in exchange for production goodies. The Department of Defense’s script approvals ensure heroic portrayals of American might, while anything less than favourable gets sanitized or cut. In Winter Soldier, framing HYDRA as a corrupting foreign element within S.H.I.E.L.D preserves the U.S military’s heroic veneer despite the film’s clandestine plot. Combine that with high production budgets and action-packed entertainment, and we swallow it whole. This is normalization in action.  

Contrarily, when Ms. Marvel, the 2022 miniseries centering a Muslim heroine was released, the controversy was palpable. This contrasting reception highlights normalization at its finest, whereby we become so inundated by certain worldviews, we mistake them for the truth and struggle to swallow anything different. 

New Norms  

It’s precisely because we are wired for storytelling that narratives are such an effective vehicle for shaping, and reshaping our identities. Just as we can get lost chasing trends fed to us by advertisements, or imbibe political ideas we were not even cognisant of through the process normalization, new and different stories are just as powerful in pushing culture in new directions, allowing us to explore and discover new aspects of ourselves. Stories are fundamentally a place for experimentation and play, and mainstream media is no longer the only place we go to get our daily dose of fiction.

Different types of storytelling such as table-top roleplaying games (TTRPG), video games, fanfiction, cosplay, and the modern juggernaut self-publishing, all function as hubs for the constant creation of new, experimental, and collaborative stories. While many of these are enjoying their time in the spotlight, stories don’t need to make it to the mainstream to make a difference. Cultural shifts happen, and rapidly so, when stories are told through different formats and from different perspectives. It’s my belief that representation and diversity aren’t forced phenomena. Unlike our assumptions about the apoliticism of white male might, or the power fantasy of a new car, narrative diversity unfolds naturally when we are empowered to pick up the pen and given the opportunity to reflect the truth of the multifaceted world we live in by expressing ourselves. New stories reveal to us how much we’ve missed, and beckon us to explore what we can become.

‘The Power of Stories’ is a limited blog series exploring the ways stories weave themselves into the fabric of our lives. It’s an invitation to reflect on how narratives—whether passed down through generations or splashed across the big screen—shape who we are, how we connect, and the worlds we imagine. Each post peels back a new layer of storytelling. The final installment will take a deep dive into the power of storytelling as an agent for change.

Recommended Reading

• ‘Anatomical Venus at the Gynecologist’ by Jade Hurter, F(r)iction Log
• ‘Envisioning Trans Bodies in Fantasy’ by Niki Schumacher, F(r)iction Log
• ‘Waves Fall on Every Shore’ by Jaime Gill, F(r)iction Log

Humans are hardwired for storytelling. Across our civilisations we have used narratives, as simple as cave paintings or as complex as multi-generational oral histories, to share knowledge, to imagine, and to thrive. The stories we cherish transform us. They point to our joys, our grief, our solidarity and our loneliness alike, guiding us through the chaos of being human. And as it turns out, there’s a science to stories.

From ancient myths to modern novels, the most enduring narratives follow core patterns that map to our inner lives, affecting the chemicals released in our brains and enhancing our capacity for problem-solving and empathy. We bond through stories, and we solve problems through the creative play that storytelling offers. In short: storytelling heals.

The Science of Storytelling

In the early 20th century, psychologist Carl Jung popularised the concept of the collective unconscious, a sort of inherited psychological landscape populated by mythic archetypes and shared by humanity’s unconscious mind. These archetypes shape us at a primal level and influence our self-development throughout life. That’s kind of a lot, so I’m just gonna call his theory ‘galaxy brain’.

Galaxy brain is impossible to prove on account of our not being able to witness the interior of every living person’s mind (thank the gods). But we don’t need to prove it to get behind the idea of a common mythic language. Jung’s symbols–the hero, the villain, the trickster, and the sage–conjure storylike images and associations in us that feel as fundamental as life itself. Examining the social and even biological aspects of this phenomenon are just as promising as trying to prove galaxy brain, and in fact, recent scientific breakthroughs have pointed toward just that

Scientists have confirmed that stories shape us at a neurological level. Brain imaging reveals that reading or hearing about an experience activates the same regions in our brains as experiencing it. Not only that, but when we are told stories, our levels of cortisol, oxytocin, and dopamine–neurotransmitters involved with memory, focus, and social bonding–measurably rise. These discoveries hint at storytelling’s power in facilitating empathy and imaginative problem solving. It makes sense then that our proclivity for telling tales has persisted when it’s linked to our essential human qualities. Stories quite literally open our minds and our worlds, and we share in their collective symbology, just like Jung posited. Maybe the real galaxy brain is the friends we made along the way. (Yeah okay, I’ll see myself out.)

Mythology to Modernity 

We now know that ancient myths endure through the ages because they represent patterns of human experience. Persephone’s cyclical descent into the underworld gives shape to the rhythms of depression and renewal, while Icarus’s flight to the sun warns us of the dangers of unchecked pride. Writer Joseph Campbell’s seminal work—The Hero with a Thousand Faces—takes Jung’s mythic journey and grounds it in narrative convention for modern application by writers the world over.

The Hero’s Journey, or monomyth, follows a central character’s call to adventure through trials and an eventual, wiser return. Stories that follow this template hit because they serve as representations of our personal journeys. They resonate with us as we cross thresholds, face moments of uncomfortable self-reckoning, and claim boons as we transform our life experiences into hard-won wisdom. By combining the science of psychoanalysis with the art of storytelling, Campbell’s monomyth reveals how the most impactful stories provide a narrative container for our emotional healing. 

Books aren’t the only place the storytelling power of the monomyth lurks, either. Traditional fortune-telling systems rely on the same premise, turning whimsy into therapeutic insight (or both! Both is good.) Author Liz Greene’s Mythic Tarot ties each card in the tarot deck to the Grecian classic myths, highlighting each myth’s depiction of psychological growth. The Fool’s leap becomes Dionysus, representing optimism and impulsivity, while Tower’s rubble symbolizes Poseidon’s wrath and the necessary collapse of outgrown defenses. Our Literary Tarot puts an even broader spin on this by pairing each card with stories from classic literature across the globe, in collaboration with modern authors. These symbolic systems take the building blocks of the monomyth and place them in our individual hands, encouraging us to make the Hero’s Journey our own. And hey–they’re fun! 

Reclaiming the Narrative 

When we grab our Hero’s Journey by the horns, we open to a world of imagination and introspection. Therapeutic writing—reflective journaling, letter drafts, poetry—lets us externalize pain and reclaim agency. When we recognize ourselves in fiction, we’re participating in collective healing, turning tales into both personal and cultural growth. At Brink, F(r)iction’s parent nonprofit, we harness this power to dismantle barriers and uplift justice-impacted people with our FRAMES Comic Program, where incarcerated writers craft stories around their personal experiences. Empowering one another to reflect, imagine, and express our core truths rewires perspectives and opens new pathways in minds and lives alike.

As we tell and re-tell our stories, we build on our collective understanding, not just of symbolic archetypes but of each other. Plugging our own experiences into the monomyth gives us agency. Reimagining old tropes from new perspectives contributes to our shared knowledge. And listening when someone tells you their story builds a bridge between you that might change both of your lives for the better, transforming inner burdens into real moments of human connection. This is where the healing potential of stories shines brightest: in the space between speaker and listener, belonging begins.

‘The Power of Stories’ is a limited blog series exploring the ways stories weave themselves into the fabric of our lives. It’s an invitation to reflect on how narratives—whether passed down through generations or splashed across the big screen—shape who we are, how we connect, and the worlds we imagine. Each post peels back a new layer of storytelling. Next up we’ll explore how stories shape identity, community, and culture.

Recommended Reading from F(r)iction

• ‘Brilliance–A Comic Memoir’ by Juaquin Mobley, F(r)iction #21: The Unseen Issue
• ‘Facts of Fiction: Explaining The Hero’s Journey’ by Maribel Leddy, F(r)iction Log
• ‘Good As Gold–A Comic Memoir’ by Jaron Jay Cook, F(r)iction #23: The Gods Issue
• ‘In Pieces’ by Kay Gram, F(r)iction Log
• ‘Of Stars and Satellites’ by Marie Eljera, F(r)iction Log
• ‘When He Says That You’re a Goddess’ by Amy Strong, F(r)iction #23: The Gods Issue

“You are what you eat,” but what about what you read, watch, or scroll through? Stories are sustenance. They entertain us, feed our curiosity, and challenge our assumptions, shaping the way we see the world. Some cater to our tastes while others expand them, and many do both… when we take our time to savor the flavor. In a cultural moment of constant content, where storytelling’s traditional gatekeepers are increasingly influenced by algorithms and paid promotion, now is the perfect time to get curious about fueling ourselves in a way that’s energizing and livening.

A Modern Feast

It’s the 21st Century. We have access to more stories than ever. Representation and publishing are reaching for new and broader horizons—and rightfully so, we think—that’s what F(r)iction is all about. But endless access begs new questions for modern readers. Is it okay to love The Lord of the Rings while critiquing its outdated tropes? Can we enjoy Alien’s gruesome thrills while dissecting its capitalist subtext? Are you a fanfiction-turned-erotic-fantasy convert, and have you ever been ashamed of it? (Psst–you shouldn’t be!) With our devices’ instant offering of stories both new and familiar, exploring our media palates enables us to discover the flavors in every piece. 

Fantasy Flavor 

Like many a word nerd, I’ve a lifelong love of fantasy. It is uplifting and transporting, taking us on sweeping adventures through vividly-imagined worlds. It’s also notorious for distilling moral complexity into binary extremes: noble kings versus monstrous baddies, pure heroes against irredeemable villains. This is the genre’s meat and PO-TA-TOES—simple and gratifying. But the real world is juicier, and the best fantasies know when to bake in that extra juice.

Tolkien’s moral contrasts in The Lord of the Rings are unmistakable, but its fans will tell you they’re not the whole meal. The epic’s power emerges in the fragile bonds between unlikely allies—alliances between elves and dwarves, the loyalty of Sam to Frodo, Middle Earth’s shared fight for a world worth saving. The legendary battles and enchanting magic of Tolkien’s world are revelatory, but its relationships—complex, messy, and deeply human—are the sustenance that keeps us coming back for seconds (and thirds, and fourths… I see you!).

Horror’s Aftertaste 

Horror is another genre ripe for the picking. These stories go all in to grip us with primal thrills—the shock of violence, filth, and the visceral dread of the monstrous Other. But there’s more meat to be had for the hungry. Horror holds up a mirror to mankind’s shadowy impulses and taboo topics, inviting us to reflect on what really frightens us: the monster, the conditions that created it, or ourselves? (Hint: yes.)

My favourite example is the films Alien and Aliens. They’re a masterclass in terror—xenomorphs bursting from chests, the iconic Ellen Ripley’s desperate flight through the Nostromo’s corridors. But the xenomorphs are weaponized by the Weyland-Yutani corporation, a human creation, to further their medical and military advancements. That origin story’s not all that, well… alien. Ripley and the xenomorph queen are eerily mirrored by their need to adapt to and survive the invasion of the same colonizing force. The facehuggers get your attention, but that message sticks to your ribs.

‘Mindful’ Self-Indulgence

Sometimes a story’s purpose is to thrill and delight, and at first glance, it kinda seems like that’s it. Is it, though? Sarah J. Maas’ A Court of Thorns and Roses series combines swoon-worthy tension with glittering worlds, for instance, offering the best of fantasy’s enchantment and romance’s emotional payoff. Oft criticized as indulgent, Maas’ emphasis on female desire and agency has galvanized a generation of readers while sparking censorship debates for her erotic content. Fan or no, it’s hard not to see the spice there.

Similar can be said for the staple horror franchise Friday the 13th. Some of us crave a good ol’ fashioned slasher, and Jason has faithfully delivered since 1980. The mask is emblematic, the kills are creative, and the most pressing question on our mind is who makes it out alive (if anyone). But Friday the 13th did something unprecedented for the genre–it distilled slasher horror to a single fundamental: no victim backstory, only killer mythos. This reduction, condemned as gratuitous, weaponizes the audience’s indifference, mirroring Jason’s psyche and providing viewers a brand-new experience in confronting fear. Jason is proof that even stories stuffed with tried-and-true stereotypes can yield surprising substance when we really sit down to eat.

At F(r)iction, we believe stories should nourish as deeply as they entertain. That’s why we publish stories with substance: the kind that tantalize your tastes while sustaining empathy, challenging assumptions, and leaving readers fortified for the world beyond the page. 

The Power of Stories is a limited blog series that dives into the ways stories weave themselves into the fabric of our lives. It’s an invitation to reflect on how narratives—whether passed down through generations or splashed across the big screen—shape who we are, how we connect, and the worlds we imagine. Each post peels back a new layer of storytelling, and next in the series delves into a F(r)iction favourite, the therapeutic power of stories.

Recommended Reading from F(r)iction

• ‘Colossal’ by Tara Laskowski, F(r)iction #16: The Monsters Issue
• ‘Final Girl’ by Lydia Gwyn, F(r)iction #21: The Unseen Issue
• ‘From Maiden to Evil Queen in Seven Easy Affirmations’ by Katrina Smith, F(r)iction #19: The Arcana Issue
• ‘To Fall and Fall and Fall’ by Hajrije Kolimja, F(r)iction #23: The Gods Issue

There’s a certain magic in opening a book, pushing play, or plunging into an immersive video game and feeling the world around you fade away. For a moment, the weight of your to-do list, the hum of your worries, and the noise of the everyday dissolve. You’re no longer just you—you’re a hobbit setting off on an unexpected journey; a space explorer probing  uncharted galaxies, or a detective unraveling a mystery that keeps you guessing until the very last page. This is the power of escapism, and it’s far more than just a way to pass the time. It’s a lifeline, a sanctuary, and sometimes, a source of hope.

J.R.R. Tolkien, the mastermind behind The Lord of the Rings, once defended escapism as something more profound than mere avoidance. He argued that escaping into stories isn’t about running away from reality—it’s about finding the strength to face it. In his essay On Fairy-Stories, Tolkien wrote, “Why should a man be scorned if, finding himself in prison, he tries to get out and go home? Or if, when he cannot do so, he thinks and talks about other topics than jailers and prison-walls?” Stories, in this sense, are a form of liberation. They remind us that there’s more to life than the walls we sometimes find ourselves trapped within. They offer us a glimpse into our essential humanity—where courage triumphs, where love endures, and where even the smallest person can change the course of the future.

A mirror to the real world

But escapism isn’t just about connecting with our inner worlds. Sometimes, the most powerful escapes are the ones that reflect the external world back to us. Take, for example, the growing representation of minority perspectives in media. Stories like Heartstopper, which explores queer joy and self-discovery, or The Hate U Give, which tackles systemic injustice with unflinching honesty, provide more than just an escape—they offer a roadmap. They show us that even in the midst of struggle, there’s room for growth, connection, and resilience. These stories don’t just help us escape; they help us return to our own lives with a renewed sense of purpose and possibility.

And then there’s the solace of shared experiences. Have you ever read a line in a book or watched a scene in a movie that felt like it was written just for you? Stories offer us the realization that we’re not alone in our thoughts, our fears, and our dreams. As actor and author Alan Bennett, best known for exploring the isolation of the mind in his play The Madness of King George III, once wrote, “The best moments in reading are when you come across something—a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things—which you had thought special and particular to you. Now here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out and taken yours.” That’s the magic of storytelling: it bridges the gaps between us, connecting us across time, space, and experience. It reminds us that our struggles, our joys, and our hopes are part of the larger human tapestry.

More than just distraction

Escapism, at its core, is more than just distraction. It’s about finding the courage to imagine a better world—and, in doing so, finding the strength to create it. Whether it’s through the pages of a book, the glow of a screen, or the shared experience of a story told aloud, escapism offers us a chance to recharge, reflect, and reconnect. It’s a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there’s light to be found—and sometimes, that light comes from the most unexpected places.

So, the next time you lose a day binge watching your faves, don’t feel too guilty. You’re not just escaping; you’re healing. You’re exploring. You’re finding the tools you need to keep going. And who knows? The story you escape into today might just be the one that helps you change your world tomorrow.

The Power of Stories is a limited blog series that dives into the ways stories weave themselves into the fabric of our lives. It’s an invitation to reflect on how narratives—whether passed down through generations or splashed across the big screen—shape who we are, how we connect, and the worlds we imagine. Each post peels back a new layer of storytelling, and next up we’re digging into storytelling as food; from what fuels us creatively to the importance of curating one’s own ‘media diet.’ 

Suggested Reading: Stories about Escape from F(r)iction:

• ‘All Fairytales Are About Longing’ by Jordon Brown, F(r)iction Log
• ‘Brilliance–A Comic Memoir’ by Juaquin Mobley, F(r)iction #21: The Unseen Issue
• ‘Good As Gold–A Comic Memoir’ by Jaron Jay Cook, F(r)iction #23: The Gods Issue
• ‘The Humid Maze of Life’ by Claire Julian, F(r)iction Log

Ever glanced at your quirky in-laws and thought, “You belong in a novel”? You’re not alone. Stories have a unique way of stirring emotions, just like the people in our lives. Whether it’s an exploration of grief, like John Green’s The Fault in Our Stars, or the sci-fi franchise we know and love as Star Trek, fiction provokes our reflection and connects us to our shared humanity. And it goes both ways: reflecting on our lives to inspire our fiction likewise enriches our stories, and deepens our capacity for empathy for each other and the world we live in.

We’ve all heard “write what you know,” but what does that mean, really? It means the people in your life matter, and you matter. When you think of those you know well—whether they make your day or drive you up the wall—there’s an emotional charge. That charge is the storyteller’s goldmine. Let those thoughts and feelings loose in your writing, and you’ll have a wealth of authentic material to draw from for your fiction. While your characters are fictional, your relationships are real, so a mindful touch is ideal. You might find it healing to work out any angst you have with those people through the lens of your characters. Perhaps through writing, you’ll glean some insight into why you feel the way you do, and why they are the way they are. Besides being a pro tip for writing nuanced characters, writing what you know provides an extraordinary opportunity for insight and empathy.

I’ll tell you a story about a story…

When I was just seven, I wrote a short fiction piece on what I thought was the pinnacle of my own creative genius: a potato, but PURPLE. You can imagine how humbled I was to discover the red-skinned sweet potato in our local supermarket the following week. Turns out it was brought to Aotearoa New Zealand by my Polynesian ancestors in the 13^th century. Whoops. This innocent faux pas taught me an early lesson about the richness of drawing from real life: even the most mundane details of our world can inspire creativity and connect us to our roots–like a potato. Examining that story now, I can see my heritage in it, grounding my fiction with real-world authenticity while sharing the history of the Pacific peoples—an underrepresented group I was only nebulously aware I belonged to when I wrote it. My story became an exercise in self-discovery and interconnectedness, where I was able to find deeper meaning in both my writing, myself, and the world around me. Magic.

Consider how you engage with the stories of your own life. Do you find echoes of yourself in the epic tales of heroism or in quiet moments of introspection? Do the natural phenomena of the world stir a new appreciation for nature in you? By understanding these connections, we can glean new and deeper insights, and sometimes, that can be just as powerful as the latest advances in psychology or the innovations that fight climate change. Sure, you might just be telling stories, but don’t you feel you’ve learned a whole lot? Enclosure: enriched. Neurons: activated. 

We all have a story!

Stories remind us that everyone has a voice worth hearing, a story worth telling, and the power to rewrite the narratives that define their lives—and, in turn, the world. It’s this belief that fuels our work at F(r)iction and its nonprofit parent Brink, where we strive through our education programming to create spaces for new and underrepresented voices to be discovered, shared, and celebrated. Whether it’s a purple potato or a mission to boldly go where no man has gone before, we believe stories have the power to inspire and heal. If that sounds like your jam too, you can explore how we make it happen on the Brink website.

I’m reminded of the famous quote by Jean-Paul Sartre. He says: “A man is always a teller of tales, he sees everything that happens to him through them; and he tries to live his own life as if he were telling a story. But you have to choose: live or tell.”

To that I say, it’s both. It’s always been both.

The Power of Stories is a limited blog series that dives into the ways stories weave themselves into the fabric of our lives. It’s an invitation to reflect on how narratives—whether passed down through generations or splashed across the big screen—shape who we are, how we connect, and the worlds we imagine. Each post peels back a new layer of storytelling, so stay tuned—next up, we’re diving into the enchanting world of escapism. See you there!

Suggested Reading: Stories that Inspire and Heal from F(r)iction:

• ‘Bloodline Whispers’ by Naomi Rae in ‘Footprints Ahead: A Community Feature with The Octavia Project’,  F(r)iction #18: The Legacy Issue
• ‘Grief is The Bird’ by Samantha Jean Coxall, F(r)iction #18: The Legacy Issue

*SPOILER ALERT* This review contains plot details of In the Shadow of the Fall.

It will be published on July 23, 2024 by Tordotcom.

Tobi Ogundiran’s In the Shadow of the Fall delivers a compact yet powerful exploration of self-discovery in a magical, African-inspired world. Despite its brevity as a novella, Ogundiran’s debut excels with vivid character development and absorbing worldbuilding, offering readers a fresh twist on genre expectations of Eurocentric fantasy. The story traverses culture and identity through the eyes of Ashâke, an upstart, failed acolyte who brashly attempts to summon the orisha, gods of the West-African Yoruba religion, for her own purposes. This sets off a chain of events that plunges her into a sprawling journey to uncover the truth about the world and her place within it. Comparable to N. K. Jemisin, Ogundiran’s voice is gritty, but the narrative retains a gripping mystique. It strikes an intriguing balance between the contemporary surge in low-fantasy titles and classic tales of epic gods and mythologies, making for a fresh change of pace.

The standout gem of In the Shadow of the Fall is its African worldbuilding, which serves as the vibrant tapestry against which Ashâke’s personal narrative unfolds. Ogundiran weaves elements of folklore, mythology, and African culture to create a setting that feels authentic and enchanting. The textual communication of oral tradition in the story is an admirable feat as Ashâke learns of her heritage through song. This a transformative, spiritual experience that readers are easily able to pick up as they read along. “Jaha stepped into the circle, spread his ample arms wide, and bellowed to the heavens…The world fell away. The griots, the trees, the fire…then the world burst to colour before [Ashâke].” We are buoyed by Ogundiran’s expertise as he plunges us into a new world of vital and tantalizing images.

In the Shadow of the Fall’s magic-brimming world is paired with impactful prose, highlighted particularly during action scenes. Whether it’s a pulse-pounding chase through the forest or a retelling of a creation myth, Ogundiran renders plot beats with cinematic flair. “Several bolts of lightning fractured the heavens, terribly in their beauty…A bolt forked through the Tower. The top half shifted, teetered on its edge, then with a great groan, shattered.” His writing is bold and evocative, painting striking images that linger in the mind. In these moments, Ogundiran’s talent as a storyteller is on full display, immersing readers’ senses and leaving them hungry for more.

Through the eyes of young Ashâke, readers are introduced to a diverse cast of personalities: the eccentric Ba Fatai, the high priestess Iyalawo, and chief Mama Agba, who guide Ashâke on her journey of self-discovery. These characters are vivid and visual, springing to life in just a few sentences. Due to the succinctness a novella’s word count demands, they can at times feel tropey, although, perhaps only because Western literature has already made caricatures of these types of characters. Ogundiran’s work arguably humanizes these tropes by contextualizing them within their own culture and giving them their own motives. We know Ba Fatai and Mama Agba are meet-the-mentor and fairy-godmother-type characters. Leaning into these assumptions while giving the characters a striking visual identity orients us quickly and seeds our expectations for the role they will play. Ogundiran then promptly spring boards us into more nuanced, informed character expression—a territory into which I was more than happy to be flung. My only gripe is that I desperately wanted to know more about these characters.

There are moments where In the Shadow of the Fall’s feels constrained by the same economy of language that sets it apart. Take the description of the griot encampment Ashâke encounters after escaping the temple for example: “Eight huge boats idled in the river. Each vessel was onion-shaped, their hulls covered with brightly painted whorl patterns…It looked like a floating city.” I read this and want to know, has Ashâke heard of griots before? What kinds of whorls are painted, and what might they represent? Who fashions the griots, and from which resources? It’s important to consider that I don’t see these answers because I am unfamiliar with African history. I read the word “whorl,” and think it’s describing a shape: a swirl. It may be a culturally significant symbol, like my own koru—an indigenous swirling pattern used in New Zealand Māori art—and I am only scratching the surface of its meaning.  With a higher word count to play with, Ogundiran may have built on these frameworks and further showcased his potential for introducing an underrepresented culture to a broad audience.

The novella could also have benefitted from more socio-political intrigue. The psyops of belief is pivotal to the story’s gods, the orisha, and to Ashâke’s self-discovery. Who holds the power to control information for the masses is an important question that was not wholeheartedly answered by the book’s end. While Ashâke is sheltered and primarily concerned with her identity, this naivete could have been used as a blank slate from which to launch her—and the readers—into the subversive realm of the book’s politics and religion, giving us a broader view of the forces at play when magic meets man’s lust for power.

Qualms aside, In the Shadow of the Fall is a refreshing debut, and a testament to Tobi Ogundiran’s talent as an emerging writer. He blends intricate worldbuilding with compelling, character-driven storytelling to create a debut that is pithy, culturally crucial, and filled with mystical allure. While the novella may leave readers yearning for a deeper exploration of its world, its strengths lie in the same place—a richly imagined setting, nuanced characters, and vibrant prose. Fans of fantasy and adventure will find much to love in this captivating tale of old gods, found family, and identity.

As F(r)iction invites you explore the invisible realms of our latest release, The Unseen Issue, we’ve compiled five best-selling novels to whet your appetite for the unknown. These stories, told by hidden narrators, challenge traditional storytelling conventions to shed new light on visibility, identity, and reality. Slap these on your reading list for 2024 with F(r)iction: Unseen as your companion—packed full of emerging talent and diverse voices—and strap in for a deep dive into the dark.

This Is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone

In this genre-bending epistolary novella, Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone weave a patchwork narrative that unfolds through a series of hidden letters exchanged between two rival agents—Red and Blue—across divergent timelines in a galactic war. The narrators, never explicitly revealed, are the voices of these agents as they lace a complex tapestry of love, espionage, and temporal manipulation in their letters to one another across time. As readers navigate the cross-dimensional landscape of the novella, the boundaries between protagonist and storyteller blur, submerging readers in a dual experience of action and retrospection.

The shapeshifting ability of the narrators allows El-Mohtar and Gladstone to build a referential work, with many of the covert identities Red and Blue assume resembling existing historical figures on Earth, or renowned icons of sci-fi literature. Here, science fiction hums as a living undercurrent, freeing the authors to zoom in on the rivals-to-lovers epic between Red and Blue in its star-crossed glory. This genre tension is perfectly captured by the quote, “I would rather break the world than lose you.”

Circe by Madeline Miller

Madeline Miller breathes life into the mythological figure of Circe, enchantress of Aeaea, in this first-person narrative rippling with power and vulnerability. While the narrator is ostensibly Circe herself, her omniscience and agency are realized through Miller’s clever utilization of point of view: Circe is unarguably the reliable narrator of her own experience. Miller gives an authentic voice to one of many hitherto silent female figures in Greek myth, sweeping readers into a transformative inner-journey across the vast mythology so many of us know and love in the classics. As Circe recounts her journey from divine exile to powerful sorceress, Miller imbues the narrative with her rich knowledge in Greco-Roman literature, filling in the gaps where spotlight characters like Odysseus and Heracles historically took front and center. Circe is a deeply informed work, reimagining the classics with masterful finesse. Miller leaves us with the feeling that Circe’s story was always there. She wrote until she set it free. 

Harrow the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir

Tamsyn Muir crafts a labyrinthine tale of necromantic intrigue with the second installment in The Locked Tomb series, AKA: lesbian necromancers in space. A stark detour from its prequel, Harrow the Ninth flirts with reality and illusion as the protagonist, Harrowhark Nonagesimus, struggles to piece her identity back together following the dizzying events in Gideon the Ninth. As Harrowhark navigates her new role as Lyctor to God of the Nine Houses (a role she cannot remember being assigned), the story’s narrator remains bafflingly elusive. Muir leaves us to oscillate between Harrow’s internal monologue, her fractured—and blatantly incorrect—memories of the events in Gideon, and what appears to be her experience of hallucinatory psychosis. We cannot be sure, nor are we supposed to be. This complex narration adds an unsettling obfuscation to the story, challenging us to discern truth in a universe where death holds no dominion and Harrow herself must grapple with the unreliable narrator of her own mind.

The Invisible Life of Addie La Rue by V.E. Schwab

V.E. Schwab tells a haunting tale of immortality and longing in her 2020 fantasy release. The titular character, Adeline, grapples with the consequences of a Faustian bargain she made to escape an unwanted marriage in the 17th century, traversing the centuries as a deathless wanderer, until the year 2014 where she meets a man who carries a similar curse. Addie’s narrative unfolds like a confession revealing the loneliness of her immortal existence and the cold solace she comes to find in her only friend, the very demon with whom she forged a pact. While Addie stumbles through time, her future self is subtly present to guide the reader across the trajectory of her journey, allowing for flashes of insight that Addie herself doesn’t yet have. Schwab’s refined storytelling gives us a profound insight into identity and mortality, as Addie embarks on her eternal quest for connection.

Klara and the Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro

Ishiguro explores the intersection of artificial intelligence and human fallibility in his dystopian sci-fi, hitting closer to home every year since its release in 2021. Through the eyes of Klara, an AI companion designed to bring solace to the lonely child Josie, Ishiguro challenges us to consider whether empathy is learned or innate, engineered or universal. Ishiguro imbues Klara with a sense of childlike wonder and existential curiosity. Yet her endearingly short-sighted conclusions about the world—such as her mistaking the sun for a god as a solar-powered android—point to a deeper exploration of sentience. Klara does not understand where the sun sets, or what it means to go to sleep or die, but somehow, she understands more profoundly than the human characters in the story, the struggle to save a loved one from suffering. Klara vandalizes public property as a plea to the sun to free Josie of an incurable sickness. This heart-wrenching story confronts us with what it means to be conscious, and what shape kindness takes in an age of technological advancement.

Hidden narrators beckon us into a liminal space where voice and identity can shift, and new perspectives can be gleaned. These five novels sit on the bleeding edge of genre innovation, calling on us to broaden our horizons and push our awareness. F(r)iction calls on you to delve deeper with our Unseen Issue. From spectral illusions to elusive truths, Unseen is packed with genre-staples as well as newer, weirder, and wilder tales. Grab a copy from our store today or subscribe to our tri-annual publication for your very own dose of the unknown. 

The world ended five times. There was The Flood, but few remember Theia’s moon-bearing collision with the Earth. That was rough. Fewer still recall Meekal rending the sky with righteous rage, or whatever you lot called it in Gilgamesh. First time any of us angels bothered to say no.

We’ve been saying it ever since. Since his OG defiance—some nonissue to do with life’s will to power—my brother has shrieked across time while we’ve torn through the galaxy to haul his ass home. Creation wormed out of our flyway, but we didn’t notice until hindsight, which was quite recently. Sorry.

I’m at the sixth extinction, pouring Nu-Shroom coffee for an idiot in a Givenchy suit, trying to convince him not to blow up the sun. We’ve been stuck in avatars since the precession. I’m used to being a woman, though not so much having a human sense of smell. I gag as dank, pretending-to-be-roasted-beans steam flirts with the back of my tongue.

“There are things we can do,” I clip in my avatar’s crisp RP. She’s a good girl, grass-fed. We’re both uncomfortable in a silk blouse.

“Who?” the idiot barks, eyes shining like black-gold, crude oil money signs.

“Everyone.”

Meekal’s entrepreneur extraordinaire spreads his stocky arms, nub fingers splayed. He looks like a bald eagle, featherless—an amalgam of impotence—which is how I know it’s him. He ignores me and the implication he’s not the center of the universe with biblical gravitas.

“A controlled explosion will redirect the sun’s rays to Mars for recolonization,” he says. “A fresh start.”

Though indoors, he punctuates this statement by donning a pair of Ray-Ban Metas. I want to say wow, but when he taps the hinge near his temple, I realize he isn’t speaking to me. His recording goes live, instantly viral with his monopoly on the algorithm.

“It’s all me, baby,” he drawls in unbelievable earnest. Meekal swoops the drink from my hands and slurps. Then, he heads for the jet.

Fuck.

That night, the world watches Meekal’s sun-exploding missile take to the sky. From my apartment, starfall pitter-patters until the sky crawls with light. Crowds thrum with unease. As the first bright fragment falls, a sonic boom peels the night open. Meekal’s man-mug appears on my phone screen, beaming wider than the event horizon he spewed himself out of.

“A lightshow for the new world,” he coos, awed by his own undoing.

The fall quickens, one starlit shriek after another. Crack, Crack, Crack. At our sixth cosmic cockup, I snap.

“Is your head really too far up your own ass to realize the fucking sky is falling?” I holler.

He doesn’t know it’s me. Never does.

“No,” he says, like he knows what’s up. Like I’m the idiot.

I let rip, but too late. The footfalls of panicked crowds eclipse my voice and Meekal mistakes the sound for applause. He swells like a dying giant and bows for the world’s next end.