by Jonas Ellison
Every day I have an appointment here. At the base of this tree.
I’m never late. Even when I am.
This is where I meet the storyteller.
As I sit with my back against this rough, marbled tree, I feel her presence as she, too, takes a seat on the opposite side.
We sit back to back. But only one of us does the talking. Only one of us is the story-teller.
Whenever I peak around to try to see her, she vanishes.
And when I try to tell him what to say, he’s gone in an instant.
But when I sit and listen, she goes on and on. She beams with enthusiasm. She boils over with drama and intrigue. She pulls out gags like they’re going out of style. And she makes metaphors out of thin air.
His descriptions are perfect. Taking the solid and the abstract, he welds them together to create the perfect mental image. Every. Time.
All I can do is take note. I write as fast as I can. But I can never write fast enough.
My listening skills are getting better…
Wait… What was that again?
And there she goes.
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