“In those days, in those distant days, in those ancient nights stories were told before there were things to tell stories about, Mom,” Sugar said over her shoulder as she walked out the door and slammed it. “I’m sick of your stories, you tell stories like all the damn time like I’m supposed to learn something from everything. It’s old.”
Sugar ran down the three steps to the sidewalk and turned left toward the school. She had practice in twenty minutes. If she walked slowly, she’d calm down enough to get her shit together before she had to blow wind into the flute. She’d ride off on the notes of Clair de Lune and forget the story shit for a while. She just wanted to ride the notes of the music. What about that story?
Sugar argued with herself.
“Which story are we talking about? The one about forgetfulness, forgetting, letting go of shit. That’s what Sugar wanted. To let go. That’s an old story too. You’re full of old words and worlds. Playing music doesn’t make you any less of a storyteller, it cements it. Admit it, Sugar, you’re a narratologist same as your mom, only she gets paid for it.”
Devonne Brown 
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