NEEDANAME was a seventh generation folk-teller. His stories, when he told them, made young and old sit still and stay quiet. In the early mornings, when most were stretching their muscles, scratching their itches, and hustling to and fro, there was one story he especially liked to tell. He called it, “The Speaking Tree.”
“When the moon races slower and the Cimarron week is nearly at an end,” he would say, his raspy voice so quiet you had to stop moving in order to hear over the hustle, “there is a MOGUL that lives in a particular tree.” He would would stand tall and stretch his arms and hands, then freeze, to imitate a tree. “If you find this tree, you may still never know of this MOGUL, because for one hundred twenty-one days, it never makes a sound. But if you find it, or happen to be sitting beneath its dwelling tree, you will hear a song and a word or two, and never will you ever be the same again.”
Tune in for quick reads of the best (or least despicable) selections from the previous day’s word count, by virtue of my daily writing regimen for the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). WARNING: editing has not taken place.