I make two stories in the afternoon so get up in the early hours to play with them, too excited to sleep. The stories live and breathe on their own, branching out and stretching wide and I respect that, but I sing similes to each, sweet talk metaphors, thickening slender shoots with my words, water them with praise. We spend the hours getting to know each other over this night-morning, it’s a time of give and take, just me and them and the moon. Eventually the sun wakes up and stretches, throwing light into hidden corners. This is good; my stories hide things and I find them, like a game.
I’m starting to flag a little now, I need new air. I leave my stories inside; they’re not ready for people to meet them as yet. An early morning breeze sets up, leaves rustling like a lullaby, softened by the dew wetting my stories heads.