In 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 story teller. Hello and welcome, I am the second story teller and today, rather unusually, I was expecting you. This is why today we are out here in the tower's garden. You know, it's rather nice to be out here in nature once in a while.
The old tower has an indelible charm to be sure, but does sometimes make the most odd sounds. Now what you might be saying, Mr. Second Story Teller, this isn't really a garden so much as it is a table and a few chairs hastily arranged near an indistinguishably tangled mess of wild flora. To which I would reply, that's okay, you don't need to call me Mr. it's a bit formal. Now as to why we're here, well, I've decided that this week shall be poetry week, quite the special occasion.
Though typically I like to share stories here, a poem in many ways can also be a type of story, and so the tower collects them all the same. Today I have three poems that I'm looking forward to sharing with you, so why don't you take a nice seat there in the sun before it too gets reclaimed by nature and we can begin our first poem. I found this first poem in a plant pot, which is what inspired me to hold this event in the garden to begin with.
Unfortunately, when I pulled it out of the soil, the plant had already absorbed some of the words, so I had to vigorously shake it upside down until they fell out again. I feel like me and my potted plant are no longer on speaking terms, but I hope you enjoy this poem, fire. Fire. Never apologize for being fire. Those burned would rather you be tame, but tame, you could never be the sun. Be the sun. I will stand in your light, and we will both be made better for the times when we touched.
This next poem here was delivered to me only a few moments before you arrived by the orange prickly limb of one of the many lovely plants around the grounds. This does look like a lovely poem now, and I fear if I don't read this then perhaps it will eat me. So here we go. Because an orange chair should have an ode. Because an orange chair should have an ode. I met him at the Salvation Army. He sat there alone, a relic from another time, and I loved him instantly. I needed that ugly orange chair.
Someone loved this chair. Someone kept it in their home. And the same someone finally left it. But its days were not over, not quite yet. It may have sat in front of the very first hulk of a television, or an ancient monolithic radio. Now its in front of my computer, waiting for a technologies next move. Ah, what a nice poem. Really worth the new anxiety I have about the garden, maybe being sentient.
I must admit I do get rather taken by the thought of collecting odd things that can be found in second hand stores, but I feel like my urges are very much under control, and its not as all as if I have an entire room in the tower just filled with a disorganised scatter of miscellany. Anyway, onto the next poem. For a friend. Let no one pull your head from the clouds, but share the view with the few who want to see that universe. Mind I can't knit you a scarf out of the stars.
The cold may be no bother, but I hope that you stay warm. I've heard that it gets chilly out in space. Hmm, the universe is quite a beautiful thing. You get a stunning view of the night sky at the top of the tower, and sometimes I have to wonder what its like up there with the stars. Perhaps there are more kinds of stories out there, not yet seen, but perhaps eventually. Well then, how did you enjoy our Poetry Week debut?
Next time I will return to stories, but I do hope that you found enjoyment from this little detour. As for me, I think I might stay out here a bit longer, perhaps do a bit of pruning, or at least I'll be telling myself that until I feel satisfied enough to just accept the task as both physically and spiritually impossible, and then go back inside. So for now, be well, and carry today's story, your poems in this case, in your heart.
Today's tale has ended, but return once again to this place where you are considered a friend. Return to this tower, and its mysterious dweller, for more from the Library of The Second Storyteller. 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 your prompt is selected, your name will be credited at the end of the episode.
These poetry prompts were Old Furniture from C. Scott, Self Celebration from Cat Green, and Something from My Brother from K. If you would like to help support the future of this podcast, please consider becoming a patron by going to patreon.com. 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. Today's voices of the story were provided by Katie Chacon, Tony Chacon, and Charles Scott. 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, all one word,.itch.io.
The Second Storyteller will return next month with more magic, fun, and of course, a story to tell.