Meet half the brother and sister St Louis songwriting duo who built bridges, and a musical arch, across the Mississippi river that divides our “United” States of America, and reunited St Louis, and the world, using the very same screens that divided it.

“The Brand is the Art. The Art is the Brand. I’m on a journey to create both.”

              - **BrandStorries.com**

An SMS from Wyoming to the REAL Brand Storries.

An SMS from Wyoming to the REAL Brand Storries.

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Listen to the first improvised table read (with commentary by the Executive Producer)

Brand Storries improv.m4a


Written By BrandStorries.com

I grew up in the trailer parks of Aspen with my older sister, Sage Storries. I’d write poems and stories, but most of all, I’d write songs. It was how I’d bond with Sage, the musician who could express our messy childhood emotions through her voice, the same feelings I learned to keep muted. Our parents gave us a choice: follow the professional path they had chosen for us, or hit the road and live a life without family. I chose my parents’ dreams for me over mine, but that choice turned my life into a nightmare.

We stayed on speaking terms, but those terms were never mine. I bent to their will—both their figurative desires and the physical document, the will which they had rewritten to exclude my sister after she chose to follow her dreams of a life in the arts. I went to Indiana University where I got a degree in digital marketing. I began marketing for the personal brand of highly successful people. I remained in my parents' trust, but they lost mine after trying to poison the relationship between Sage and me—the one we had written about in song on those fall Aspen days in our trailer park yard, accompanied by her guitar, and my drum.

**But she was gone.**

I couldn’t break free and write my own story. I became a digital marketer on Madison Avenue. I fell into a depression, until I received a phone call from a one-named enigma named Wyoming who said he was creating a place called Songa, where talent feels **home.

But it was in St. Louis, my sister’s adoptive home. She’d reached out to Wyoming who was helping families reconnect. She said we could be one of the first.

But what artist would go to St. Louis? And besides, I was no artist.

I wasn’t a writer.

I was a copywriter.

Whatever writing talent I did have, I’d sold to the highest bidder.