"Show's over, kid," the traveling man told me. "Go home." And he turned away to finish packing his wagon.
       But I refused to leave. I watched as he carefully placed his Voice upon a pillow in a special glass container. It was a majestic, colorful creature, this man's Voice; I pressed my face to the glass as it curled up to sleep, exhausted from the stories told tonight. I'd never seen a Voice up close before, not even my own. . . but I intended to change that.
       "It's uncouth to stare, you know," the man said, buckling the straps of the harness.
       "Then why do you keep your Voice encased in glass, so easy to see?" When he didn't answer, I added, "It's very beautiful."
       Based on his smug expression, he'd heard this a million times. He swung up to the seat of the wagon and gathered the reins, ready to leave.
       Panicking, I blurted the question I'd been waiting to ask. "Sir, how did you find your Voice?"
       "Run along and play with the others." He gestured at the children in the distance, all of whom had left promptly after the show. Unlike me.
       "But I have stories to tell!" I exclaimed, before he could drive off.
       The man paused, gripping his reins. "All right, kid. Have you ever found your Voice, even briefly?"
       "Yes, but I lose it every time."
       "That's normal at first. Is there a place where it might come back to you?"
       I considered the last location where my Voice had appeared. "In the woods behind my house."
       "Well, finding your Voice requires patience." The horse stamped its hoof, but the man calmed the animal with a soft word. For having been in a rush to leave earlier, now he seemed rather content to stay and talk; clearly, he took great pride in telling people how to do things. "Allow me to explain. First, you'll need to go into the woods behind your house. Sit on a comfortable stump or log. And wait."
       I expected him to go on. "That's it?"
       The man nodded sagely. "When it's ready, your Voice will show itself."
       "How long does that take?"
       "Each Voice appears to its storyteller on its own time."
       "What if it takes my whole life?"
       "Though rare, that can happen."
       I gulped, terrified to think my stories might never escape from within me. "I don't want to wait."
       "Well, Voices don't just come when called. You're on their schedule." The traveling man frowned, as if my reaction to his esteemed advice was unsatisfactory. He flicked his reins with annoyance, and the wagon lurched, carrying away his beautiful glass-encased Voice. "If you aren't patient," he called back, "then you're not a natural storyteller."
       That man never returned. There was a rumor he stopped putting on shows. Maybe he lost his Voice.
       Maybe, to this day, he's still waiting for it to come back.

       Months passed before I worked up the nerve to venture into the woods. The traveling man's advice was discouraging, but my stories burned like boiling water, and I needed to pour them out. So, I went and found a comfortable stump and sat down, as instructed.
       And I waited.
       For a time, nothing moved but the wind. I grew bored watching swaying branches; I slept and awoke to a falling sun. The darkening woods seemed to say, You're waiting for nothing. And I began to believe I wasn't meant to tell stories. . .
       But I adjusted my position on the stump, getting comfortable again, reminding myself that this could take years. Even if I wasn't prepared to wait that long, I could at least wait one night. So I--
       Movement in the trees. Only the wind?
       No. . .
       A shadow emerged in the fading light. The creature was arguably less beautiful than the traveling man's Voice--but still beautiful in its own right. A beauty which suited me, and only me.
       With slow, easy movements, I beckoned the Voice. I made soothing noises, patting my legs.
       It darted out, sniffed the air--then ran off, giving me a glimpse, nothing more. I watched the treeline, hoping it might return. Hoping. . .
       But my stomach growled.
       If I'm really going to wait forever, I should have brought some food.
       So, I poked around in search of berries, feeling not just hungry, but alone. . . until a bird fluttered through the canopy, singing the last song of the day. The melody was strong enough to distract me from my rumbling insides. I asked myself, what was that bird's story? It unfolded in my head--a mother searching for her missing nest. I could figure out the ending later; I tried to slide the concept of the story into my brain, with all the others waiting to be told one day. . . but I found no story-slots remaining. I was bloated with too many untold.
       There was a bubbling-over sensation. "I could have sworn I left my nest in the arms of this birch," I said aloud, simply letting it out, pretending now to be that mother bird. "Oh, children, where have you gone. . .?" Behind my eyes, a lever swung, tipping a bucket of ideas, and that tide of stories from all my life flowed freely; I spoke to the blackening sky, the wind, telling my tales for the first time. They didn't sound good, I'll admit, but they were being told, Voice or not. Stories of all shapes and kinds. Stories with tragic endings, stories that rhymed. I completely forgot about looking for food; never had I experienced such joy, a shift of mood--to say these things I'd always wanted to say, but had been too afraid; I spun fabrics of make-believe, amateur epics, for the birds and the trees--and most of all, for me.
       I noticed, creeping back, my Voice. . . or, one of them. (On this night, I learned a person can have more than one; of course, you can.) The Voice padded over and allowed me to pet its coat. Glancing around again, I saw the Voice had brought its friends, no less than a dozen of them. They listened, feasting on my words, attracted to my splurge of self-fulfillment. And I felt pride when I knew from the sparks in their eyes that these Voices would, in time, lend their beauty to stories of mine.
       Most of those Voices have followed me ever since, and I haven't needed any containers to put them in.

       It wasn't long before some kids stuck around after one of my shows. They had the same question I'd asked the traveling man all those years ago. How does one make a beautiful thing fall from one's mouth?
       I said, smiling, "Just let it all out."