Hushed Willows [festival] the sun's not yellow, it's chicken

for anyone interested in storytime! round 2 will start on the 21st.

well, here went nothing. he didn't intuit any steps behind him at first blush, but perhaps he just wasn't paying attention. in any case, the rush of putting himself out there far clouded any sense of awareness he had, and it took several minutes of traveling through the trees for it to fade. then he was just left with his thoughts, some of them whispers, some screams, some mocking laughter—

yeah, shut up, cortez admonished his inner self-deprecation, rolling his eyes. he stopped in a smaller clearing, near the minnow stream, the sounds of the festival's main gathering faint but still audible even here. but it was a quiet murmur, rather than the cacophony of before. a perfect backdrop for tales.

what would be the best crowd-pleaser? love stories always seemed to catch attention, but that seemed like an easy way to go. tales of children were more difficult to weave together; however, they did have the benefit of evoking nostalgia. he did so love to see the glow of old eyes gone suddenly young again, thinking of their youth.

depending on the audience, he could dive deep into some lustier fare—tasteful, mind you—but that was always a gamble. no, love or children, that was what tonight was really about. even if sex was the means to an end. . .or for some, simply the means, and to hell with the end. love and children. if you went to a fertility festival and then complained upon hearing stories of love and children, that was on you.