You need to read this story

The table went quiet. We lent in and listened. Each word was carefully laid before us and we craved for more. 

She was an epic story teller. It did not matter what she said, only that she said it. We listened to her the entire night.

Words were silver droplets for her, falling through the air onto our tongues from her fingers. She played an invisible piano above us and made it rain.

I remember everything about her. I can hear her voice. The way it grew and shrunk. How it paused, extending a plank over the canyon, daring us to cross.

But I can’t remember what happened when we did cross. Nor can I remember what was before the canyon. In fact, I can’t remember any of the stories. Only her, the storyteller.

And perhaps there’s something in that. It’s not what you say, it’s how you say it. Eyes open, leaning forward, inviting you in. Are you hooked? Come in and enter my world.

Image by sakura via Flickr.