Storytellers

Tell me a story.

In a grubby fifth-floor walk-up, a solemn child with eyes as wide as

quarters tugged on her sister’s real satin skirt (scavenged from the

trash of an old theatre company eight blocks north), and asked her for

a story.

Just like me?

Exactly like you.

And the girl in satin gathered her gently.

On the other side of the world, a quiet girl with skin burnt black

by the heat of the sun sat down by the old man in the firelight (as he

cast shadows of antelope running across the plains), and asked him for

a story.

Just like me?

Exactly like you.

And the old man patted her burnt-black cheek.

In a land where the sun only comes out once every moon’s-turning, (the

rain falls as gently as flowers, as persistently as blowing sand), a

tired boy with sweat falling like the rain turned to his friend at the

factory, among the machines, and asked him for a story.

Just like me?

Exactly like you.

And the friend in gray smiled wearily.

And told him a story.

*****

M.A. Mohanraj

December 2, 1992