glassesWilf Merttens harvests the little clumps of story that collect in sock drawers and obscure chat rooms. He mixes them up in a jar until they make a dark and childish syrup. It’s damned hot down the myth mine and the other miners grope in the dark to steal his pasty and it’s dusty and when he is born again rolling and coughing from the earth’s mouth a formidable old tale has built up in his throat and must be worked up and out before it gnarls his insides. He was once young storyteller of the year but now he’s not. He is still pretty young though.

He tells poems, he brings legends, he jumps about.