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From the heart of a wood which lost its name long ago, is a place where a seeker of stories

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may go.

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If you've arrived in a story's your desire, come, take a seat, for what you require is

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a tale from the second storytime.

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Oh, finally.

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This place is nearly back to my standard.

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Well, I'll put that big room full of garbage.

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Ugh, not today.

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Oh, your back.

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Right, of course your back.

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All thanks to my protege, right?

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Well, whatever.

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I, of course, am the first storyteller, and I am a vastly superior towerkeeper to that

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scrumbley.

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How, hello?

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Ah, you've returned, thank goodness.

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The spell is still working.

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Listen closely, because-

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Hey, hello.

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Are you paying attention?

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You did come here for a story, right?

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Well, I've got one right here that you are going to love.

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You've really got to listen if you want to hear the voice of the story.

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Anyway, today's story is...

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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They.

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that everything blurred the further you looked from where we stood.

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I took a seat on the stone bench in front of the fountain. The ground was all cobblestone.

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A few nearby trees suggested that this was a park. The other people drifting through

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the space had blurry, incomplete faces. Despite knowing how fleeting the space was, I still

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attempted to look at every detail of the dreamscape. I knew it was all I would ever have.

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Hello, she said cheerfully, taking a seat next to me on the stone bench. I recoiled,

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hands over my face to keep from staring into the blindingly warm glow of her friendly gaze.

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Eventually I stole a glance. Her face was full of questions. My whole being was full of anger.

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What's your name? she asked. To my complete shock, I had one. Steve Parsons, I murmured,

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feeling the shape of my name and the sound of my voice as the dread of her waking up washed over

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me. I had a face. I had a name. I had a voice. But this was a dream, and I knew that in moments

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these things would be ripped from me whenever she woke up. Her hand touched my shoulder. It was

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warmer than summer, and I felt my anger surge when she said, Why do you look so scared? I'm only

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here because of you. But because of you, I'm going to stop existing. I somehow found the nerve

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to look her directly in the eyes. She had only been kind to me. She had not known that this was

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a dream. She had not known that I was a dream. She knew it now. I watched her expression shift

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from concern to alarm. The dreamscape around us began to fade as realization washed over her.

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A white black silk ribbon appeared in her hand. She grabbed my hand as though it were a precious

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thing and pressed the black ribbon into it with a swift desperation. Listen to me, Steve Parsons.

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She stared into my eyes as she began to fade from the space. Do not let go of this. Follow it,

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Anne. She was gone. Everything was gone. I found myself standing in total darkness. I knew that

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I remained because I could feel the soft silk of the ribbon against my palm. She had said to

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follow it. And so I did. Hand over hand, never letting go. My feet moved in the direction that

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the ribbon pulled taught. There was no time in that dark, empty space. So I followed the ribbon

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endlessly until I found myself in front of a door. The light that peaked between the door and frame

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allowed me to see the simple brown wooden rectangle emblazoned with the golden characters, Anne, too.

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The black ribbon wandered provokingly under the door, and so I turned the handle and opened it.

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The hallway beyond the N2 door crackled with electricity. Transparent panels on the floor

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and ceiling revealed spider webs of lightning which made total darkness impossible in this space.

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Both sides of the hall were flanked by small green doors, each bearing a different label.

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The black ribbon snaked its way over the floor, stopping at the opposite end of the hallway

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where it was jammed through another door. The characters on it were too far away to read.

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As I continued forward, one hand always gripping the silk tether, I read the labels on the green

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doors. Bad coffee, friendships, song lurks, hometown, terrible things she said to me.

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There seemed to be no end to them, and no particular order to them either. Why was the

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complicated sexual experience door next to the falling down in the snow door, and why was that

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one next to the cereal I don't like door? I stopped trying to guess when I reached the end of the

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hallway to find the silk ribbon stuck just above the knob of a heavy white door bearing the gold

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characters N3. The cloud of steam that rolled out of the opened N3 door was soothing to the

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point where I nearly dropped the silk ribbon. In front of me was a room lined floor to ceiling

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with smooth white square tiles. Round globes hung from the ceiling in regular intervals. The light

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from them was a rosy gold kind of gentle. A few inches of warm water rose just above my ankles,

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so comforting that I began walking slower. The ribbon maintained a tautness that kept it well

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above the water, and if it weren't for the simple action of hand over hand over hand,

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I'm sure I would have stopped moving. The heady steam that drifted off the warm water

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smelled of flowers and spices. It was passionate and calming all at once, tea and whiskey. More

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than once my feet stopped. More than once my eyes became unfocused. The sensation of soothing

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water on unsure feet and intoxicating steam on a wandering thought would have been overpowering,

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if not for the security of the black silk ribbon. The fear of letting it and myself slip

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eventually led my feet to a door whose label I did not read before stepping through.

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I found myself back in the hallway of green doors. The black ribbon continued to stretch

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on and on. I started wondering if this was all I would ever do. What was the point of clinging

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to the silk tether if all I could do was slowly walk forward, accompanied only by the crackling

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of electricity as it danced through the panels in the floor and ceiling? Was my only purpose

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just to look at doors with labels like, The best hiding places at Ashley's house, or,

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Don't say these things out loud, or, Cloudy sky and the roof of the shed?

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Whatever lay beyond those doors clearly belonged to her. What belonged to me was the black

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ribbon and unending liminality. Eventually I reached another tall-brown

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door. The golden characters fixed to the door read, N1, and the black ribbon ran under the

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door and into whatever lay beyond. Hoping at least for something new, I pulled the door

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open. Unlike the intoxicating warmth of the room beyond the N3 door, the fireplace in

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this room offered a feeling of welcome. The moment that I stepped in, I found the entirety

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of the wide black ribbon coiled in a heap at the centre of the room. The ribbon itself

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came to an abrupt end, stuck into the centre of a mirror mounted on the wall.

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The room was lined with bookshelves and contained an armchair that looked more comfortable than

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aesthetically pleasing. Though the plush carpet gave way nicely under my feet, standing in

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this room felt solid and secure, enough so that I allowed myself to drop the wide black

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ribbon. It was fully contained in this room, after all, and so was I.

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There was still a tall wooden door at the back of the room labelled N2 that would undoubtedly

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lead me back to the endless hallway of electricity and weird green doors, but that desperate

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feeling of wandering to survive had remained behind with the pulsing electric tiles.

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I lifted a book from one of the infinite shelves and began to read. The dress felt good, but

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not good at the same time. Everyone said I looked great, so why? I shut the book quickly

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and selected another. Why did I tell her that? I'm such an idiot. I should have. I selected

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another. Just feel so trapped. I threw the book to the floor, anger burning me hotter

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than the fireplace. Trapped. She felt trapped. I took a moment to take in all of the shelves

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lining the walls, their uncountable volumes of lived experiences. Trapped? While I had

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wandered as a scrap of a leftover thought, she had access to all of this. No soft carpet,

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cozy armchair, or fireplace warmth could distract me from the fact that the wealth contained

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in this room was something that I would never be able to have. The weight of these feelings

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tore at me. A familiar voice cut through my emulating thoughts. Steve? Parsons? I turned

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to look at the mirror. Instead of my own reflection, there she was, the same golden hair, the same

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grey eyes, but the skin around them bore the quiet, faded damage that tears leave behind.

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I approached the mirror, trying very hard to hold on to the rage that boiled and ripped

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my existence, but the smile she gave me when she whispered my name a second time told me

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everything. The pain of existing in liminality belonged to both of us. It tore at her with

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the same ferocity. We put our hands to the glass. Tears of molten despair traced their

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way down her face over well-practiced paths. She asked, What now? In a voice so tired that

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it broke my heart. Without a word or hesitation, my hands gripped the wide black silk ribbon

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that was impossibly jammed into the centre of the mirror, and I pulled. The ribbon remained

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steadfast, and so I pulled until I felt the very slightest give. I turned my back to the

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mirror, and I put my entire weight on the black silk ribbon. My whole being screamed

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in protest at the sudden demand that I put on its existence, but I closed my eyes as

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tight as I could, and pulled until I heard the metallic shatter of glass that could

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have only been the mirror or myself. My breath trailed out slowly as I opened my eyes. I

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found my hands gripped around a black silk necktie as I pulled the knot securely against

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my throat, underneath a crisp green shirt collar that made me feel whole. I looked up

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into the mirror's reflection, and cried because it was mine.

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See? Great story, don't you think? Sorry you had to put up with that fraud for so long.

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Word up to him, I'm pretty sure I would have been trapped in that stupid closet forever.

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But now that the first storyteller has returned to their tower, I can continue my duty to keep

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this precious archive protected for all time. If you have a preference for a type of story,

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let me know. I'm sure I can find stories to keep you amused. Oh, that's right, let's

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be professional about this now. Be well, and carry today's story in your heart.

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Today's tale has ended, but return once again to this place where you are considered a friend.

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Come to this tower in its mysterious dweller for more from the library of The Second Storyteller.

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Thank you for listening to The Second Storyteller. If you have a prompt for a story, please send

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it to thesecondstoryteller at gmail.com. If your prompt is selected, your name will be

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credited at the end of the episode. Today's prompt was DREAM, submitted by KAY. If you

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would like to help support the future of this podcast, please consider becoming a patron

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by going to patreon.com slash the second storyteller. A donation as small as a dollar is greatly

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appreciated and helps keep us going. A donation of just $10 a month puts you on the list of

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current library card holders, and your name will be read at the end of the episode. The

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Second Storyteller podcast and the featured stories were written and created by Katie

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Chacon. The role of the second storyteller is played by Charles Scott. The role of the

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first storyteller is played by Katie Chacon. Today's voice of the story was provided by

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Charles Scott. The voice of the intro and outro is Chris Camp, and you can find the

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fantastic games he's worked on at rix.itch.io. That's riks.itch.io. The music was written

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by Finton, who can be found at garbagebag, all one word,.itch.io. The second storyteller

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will return next month with more magic, fun, and of course, a story to tell.