From the heart of a wood which lost its name long ago, is a place where a seeker of stories
may go.
If you've arrived in a story's your desire, come, take a seat, for what you require is
a tale from the second storytime.
Ah, welcome back, welcome back.
I am of course the first storyteller, but you knew that, that's why you came back,
isn't it?
And there.
Finally.
Well, it took me a fair old time working with the magic of the tower to pull this off,
but here I am, your second storyteller.
And this week is Poetry Week.
I bet the first storyteller didn't expect me to be quite as well versed with the workings
of this tower, huh?
Huh?
Usually I would be doing this from the gardens, but in these rather extenuating circumstances,
I'll have to host from this, uh, well, place.
Who I am now is a little difficult to describe, a little like the gardens really, but in a
more existential way.
It's not so much a room as a pocket space within the tower, through which its magics
flow.
I would feel it much more of a wondrous experience if I weren't trapped here.
Ah, but before the first storyteller catches on, let's have our first pull.
Miles Hart's thoughts.
I love you, in a thousand miles in the palm of my hand, distance shrinks and expands, my
heart beats louder when I can't sleep, and you can't sleep, so we call each other and
reach.
Sit with my soul awhile, rest your weary thoughts on my brain instead.
I'll carry you to bed the only way I know how, over a thousand miles.
I've passed through so many hearts, falling through and having to start over and over,
when all is done and said, can I live in your heart instead?
I'll take the space if you'll have me here, to whisper in your ear, I love you, in a thousand
miles.
Excellent.
You see, by repeatedly invoking the voice of the story for these poems, I can interrupt
the first storyteller if they're trying to dispel our poetry week.
I really am sorry for not explaining the situation before, we had a bit of a falling
out before you arrived here for the first time, and I was doing my best to keep the
drama at bay, but clearly the quantity of drama simply can't be contained.
Well, here is our second poem.
Inspiration.
Shhh.
It's the noise they make to keep you from making noise.
Tear dreams and nightmares alike from their quiet hiding places and give them volume in
inky bindings.
Some will cover their ears, some will turn away, some will hear, some will listen.
No matter the number of times you're hushed, make noise.
Those who listen will not hear noise, and they will see.
Well, this is working better than I expected, although it doesn't seem like I'll be able
to escape this way.
It's going to take a little more preparation, I think.
And perhaps you could help me.
Listen, now, I know that the first storyteller seems friendly and all, maybe they are, that
they're core, but they're planning something, I'm certain of it, something that involves
barring you from this tower, or anyone else for that matter.
We cannot allow that to happen.
The wealth of stories here should be available for everyone who cares to listen, to read,
to imagine, not just to be hoarded away.
Don't you think?
Uh, hello?
Uh, are you listening?
Oh dear, quickly now, third poem, third poem.
Skinned knees.
I was walking, and thinking about a piano and a box of nails.
But clearly I did more thinking than walking, because my eternally flat feet missed a step,
unbalancing me, and the pack on my back did all it could to contribute to my lack of grace.
All twenty-one years of me hit the concrete walkway, which demanded that I sacrifice the
skin on my knees.
I couldn't believe that after so many years of walking, that I was thrown by a piano, and
a box of nails.
Okay, I think the first might be catching on to me.
We'll have time for one final poem, a last bit of a poor treat, if you will.
But before that, let me explain my plan.
I'm going to try and build up enough magic to escape, but I'm going to need some help
from the other side to do so, and that is where you come in.
In a few more visits, I'll give you a signal.
I'll make my voice heard to you, and tell you when it's time.
When you get the signal, I want you to stretch one arm out in front of you.
Pam out, fingers pointed up.
Either arm is fine, even a foot will do.
I won't be all picky choosy about it.
Then I'll need you to concentrate on the word return.
Just that one word, okay?
I'll take care of the rest, and first is never going to see how-
Yell.
Yell, little rebel.
Follow your queer heart.
Your everything our stubbornness longed for.
Yell, little rebel.
Even if you aren't heard, we know we're with you.
If they make you steal love, take it.
If they scold your love, double down.
Make it.
You're full of dreams and fears, but the doubts are when you'll hear us yell, little
rebel.
Yell.
Hey, did you come here for a story today or not?
Oh, it seems our time is already up.
How odd.
Well, I do hope that you are alright, and I guess for now, be well, and carry today's
story in your heart.
Please tell us what you think.
Thank you for listening to The Second Storyteller.
If you have a prompt for a story, please send it to thesecondstoryteller at gmail.com.
If you would like to help support the future of this podcast, please consider becoming
a patron by going to patreon.com slash thesecondstoryteller.
A donation as small as a dollar is greatly appreciated and helps keep us going.
A donation of just $10 a month puts you on the list of current library card holders,
and your name will be read at the end of the episode.
The Second Storyteller podcast and the featured stories were written and created by Katie
Chacon.
The role of the second storyteller is played by Charles Scott.
The role of the first storyteller is played by Katie Chacon.
Today's voices of the story were provided by Katie Chacon and Chris Camp.
The voice of the intro and outro is Chris Camp, and you can find the fantastic games he's
worked on at rix.itch.io.
The music was written by Fintan, who can be found at garbagebag.itch.io.
The second storyteller will return next month with more magic, fun, and of course, a story
to tell.