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. Oh, finally. This place is nearly back to my standard. Well, I'll put that big room full of garbage. Ugh, not today. Oh, your back. Right, of course your back. All thanks to my protege, right? Well, whatever.
I, of course, am the first storyteller, and I am a vastly superior towerkeeper to that scrumbley. How, hello? Ah, you've returned, thank goodness. The spell is still working. Listen closely, because- Hey, hello. Are you paying attention? You did come here for a story, right? Well, I've got one right here that you are going to love. You've really got to listen if you want to hear the voice of the story. Anyway, today's story is... They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They.
They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. They. that everything blurred the further you looked from where we stood. I took a seat on the stone bench in front of the fountain. The ground was all cobblestone. A few nearby trees suggested that this was a park. The other people drifting through
the space had blurry, incomplete faces. Despite knowing how fleeting the space was, I still attempted to look at every detail of the dreamscape. I knew it was all I would ever have. Hello, she said cheerfully, taking a seat next to me on the stone bench. I recoiled, hands over my face to keep from staring into the blindingly warm glow of her friendly gaze. Eventually I stole a glance. Her face was full of questions. My whole being was full of anger.
What's your name? she asked. To my complete shock, I had one. Steve Parsons, I murmured, feeling the shape of my name and the sound of my voice as the dread of her waking up washed over me. I had a face. I had a name. I had a voice. But this was a dream, and I knew that in moments these things would be ripped from me whenever she woke up. Her hand touched my shoulder. It was warmer than summer, and I felt my anger surge when she said, Why do you look so scared? I'm only
here because of you. But because of you, I'm going to stop existing. I somehow found the nerve to look her directly in the eyes. She had only been kind to me. She had not known that this was a dream. She had not known that I was a dream. She knew it now. I watched her expression shift from concern to alarm. The dreamscape around us began to fade as realization washed over her. A white black silk ribbon appeared in her hand. She grabbed my hand as though it were a precious
thing and pressed the black ribbon into it with a swift desperation. Listen to me, Steve Parsons. She stared into my eyes as she began to fade from the space. Do not let go of this. Follow it, Anne. She was gone. Everything was gone. I found myself standing in total darkness. I knew that I remained because I could feel the soft silk of the ribbon against my palm. She had said to follow it. And so I did. Hand over hand, never letting go. My feet moved in the direction that
the ribbon pulled taught. There was no time in that dark, empty space. So I followed the ribbon endlessly until I found myself in front of a door. The light that peaked between the door and frame allowed me to see the simple brown wooden rectangle emblazoned with the golden characters, Anne, too. The black ribbon wandered provokingly under the door, and so I turned the handle and opened it.
The hallway beyond the N2 door crackled with electricity. Transparent panels on the floor and ceiling revealed spider webs of lightning which made total darkness impossible in this space. Both sides of the hall were flanked by small green doors, each bearing a different label. The black ribbon snaked its way over the floor, stopping at the opposite end of the hallway where it was jammed through another door. The characters on it were too far away to read.
As I continued forward, one hand always gripping the silk tether, I read the labels on the green doors. Bad coffee, friendships, song lurks, hometown, terrible things she said to me. There seemed to be no end to them, and no particular order to them either. Why was the complicated sexual experience door next to the falling down in the snow door, and why was that
one next to the cereal I don't like door? I stopped trying to guess when I reached the end of the hallway to find the silk ribbon stuck just above the knob of a heavy white door bearing the gold characters N3. The cloud of steam that rolled out of the opened N3 door was soothing to the point where I nearly dropped the silk ribbon. In front of me was a room lined floor to ceiling with smooth white square tiles. Round globes hung from the ceiling in regular intervals. The light
from them was a rosy gold kind of gentle. A few inches of warm water rose just above my ankles, so comforting that I began walking slower. The ribbon maintained a tautness that kept it well above the water, and if it weren't for the simple action of hand over hand over hand, I'm sure I would have stopped moving. The heady steam that drifted off the warm water smelled of flowers and spices. It was passionate and calming all at once, tea and whiskey. More
than once my feet stopped. More than once my eyes became unfocused. The sensation of soothing water on unsure feet and intoxicating steam on a wandering thought would have been overpowering, if not for the security of the black silk ribbon. The fear of letting it and myself slip eventually led my feet to a door whose label I did not read before stepping through. I found myself back in the hallway of green doors. The black ribbon continued to stretch
on and on. I started wondering if this was all I would ever do. What was the point of clinging to the silk tether if all I could do was slowly walk forward, accompanied only by the crackling of electricity as it danced through the panels in the floor and ceiling? Was my only purpose just to look at doors with labels like, The best hiding places at Ashley's house, or, Don't say these things out loud, or, Cloudy sky and the roof of the shed?
Whatever lay beyond those doors clearly belonged to her. What belonged to me was the black ribbon and unending liminality. Eventually I reached another tall-brown door. The golden characters fixed to the door read, N1, and the black ribbon ran under the door and into whatever lay beyond. Hoping at least for something new, I pulled the door open. Unlike the intoxicating warmth of the room beyond the N3 door, the fireplace in
this room offered a feeling of welcome. The moment that I stepped in, I found the entirety of the wide black ribbon coiled in a heap at the centre of the room. The ribbon itself came to an abrupt end, stuck into the centre of a mirror mounted on the wall. The room was lined with bookshelves and contained an armchair that looked more comfortable than
aesthetically pleasing. Though the plush carpet gave way nicely under my feet, standing in this room felt solid and secure, enough so that I allowed myself to drop the wide black
ribbon. It was fully contained in this room, after all, and so was I. There was still a tall wooden door at the back of the room labelled N2 that would undoubtedly lead me back to the endless hallway of electricity and weird green doors, but that desperate feeling of wandering to survive had remained behind with the pulsing electric tiles. I lifted a book from one of the infinite shelves and began to read. The dress felt good, but
not good at the same time. Everyone said I looked great, so why? I shut the book quickly and selected another. Why did I tell her that? I'm such an idiot. I should have. I selected another. Just feel so trapped. I threw the book to the floor, anger burning me hotter than the fireplace. Trapped. She felt trapped. I took a moment to take in all of the shelves lining the walls, their uncountable volumes of lived experiences. Trapped? While I had
wandered as a scrap of a leftover thought, she had access to all of this. No soft carpet, cozy armchair, or fireplace warmth could distract me from the fact that the wealth contained in this room was something that I would never be able to have. The weight of these feelings tore at me. A familiar voice cut through my emulating thoughts. Steve? Parsons? I turned
to look at the mirror. Instead of my own reflection, there she was, the same golden hair, the same grey eyes, but the skin around them bore the quiet, faded damage that tears leave behind. I approached the mirror, trying very hard to hold on to the rage that boiled and ripped my existence, but the smile she gave me when she whispered my name a second time told me everything. The pain of existing in liminality belonged to both of us. It tore at her with
the same ferocity. We put our hands to the glass. Tears of molten despair traced their way down her face over well-practiced paths. She asked, What now? In a voice so tired that it broke my heart. Without a word or hesitation, my hands gripped the wide black silk ribbon that was impossibly jammed into the centre of the mirror, and I pulled. The ribbon remained steadfast, and so I pulled until I felt the very slightest give. I turned my back to the
mirror, and I put my entire weight on the black silk ribbon. My whole being screamed in protest at the sudden demand that I put on its existence, but I closed my eyes as tight as I could, and pulled until I heard the metallic shatter of glass that could have only been the mirror or myself. My breath trailed out slowly as I opened my eyes. I found my hands gripped around a black silk necktie as I pulled the knot securely against
my throat, underneath a crisp green shirt collar that made me feel whole. I looked up into the mirror's reflection, and cried because it was mine. See? Great story, don't you think? Sorry you had to put up with that fraud for so long. Word up to him, I'm pretty sure I would have been trapped in that stupid closet forever. But now that the first storyteller has returned to their tower, I can continue my duty to keep
this precious archive protected for all time. If you have a preference for a type of story, let me know. I'm sure I can find stories to keep you amused. Oh, that's right, let's be professional about this now. Be well, and carry today's story in your heart. Today's tale has ended, but return once again to this place where you are considered a friend. Come to this tower in 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. Today's prompt was DREAM, submitted by KAY. If you would like to help support the future of this podcast, please consider becoming a patron by going to patreon.com slash the second storyteller. 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 voice of the story was provided by
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. That's riks.itch.io. The music was written by Finton, 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.