Once upon a time there was a young girl who lived on a farm with her mother, father, two brothers, and three sisters. She was a very bright girl, having been homeschooled her whole life, very sweet, really hardworking, and extremely talkative. Agatha--that was the girl’s name--loved to tell stories. Her imagination was impressive, and her storytelling even more so. She was truly talented; unfortunately, when you’re five years old, it doesn’t matter how wonderful your stories are. Most people are too ignorant to think you anything but cute. (And in Agatha’s case, loud.)
Even her family members overlooked her talents. When Agatha asked if they wanted to hear her latest story, they would say “Oh, Agatha, stop making up these silly stories and go milk the cow!”
Being young, the ignorance of others didn’t bother Agatha. Instead, she pitied them. “How terrible it must be not to have an imagination!” she would say. So as she milked the cow and fed the chickens and groomed the horses she would tell her stories. The animals always listened to her. Not once did they interrupt or tell her to shut up.
But as the years passed Agatha started to take things more personally. When people would scoff at her love of stories she didn’t take it lightly. And it pains me to say that at the age of fifteen she stopped telling stories altogether. Her days became sad and dull. She worked on the farm, did her schooling, and ate her meals in silence. And what do you think happens to stories that are not shared with others? They are forgotten.
Two years passed. Agatha was seventeen, and she had stuck to not telling stories. This made her a rather boring person. Everyone talked about how she was such a mature young lady who surprised them all by “finally leaving that horrible, childish phase of talking nonstop.”
And then something very weird and miraculous happened.
It was a sunny day in June. Like any other day, Agatha was heading to the barn to feed the animals. As she tossed handfuls of grain out for the chickens, she accidentally threw one handful a little too hard. The grain hit one of the roosters, who squawked, jumped, and gave Agatha the evil eye. Agatha ignored this and continued tossing grain.
“You were nicer when you told stories.” a voice grumbled. Agatha jumped and turned around, expecting one of her brothers. But there was no one there.
“Who said that?” she demanded. “Who’s there?”
“Jeez, calm down.” said the voice. “It’s just me.” Bewildered, Agatha spun around. No one was there.
“Down here.” She looked down. The rooster was still glaring at her. A crazy thought entered her head, but you must remember that she was no longer the imaginative person she once was. Now she was older and proper and dull. Agatha was then shaking so much that she dropped the pail of grain.
“Now, now, there’s no need for that.” said the voice. The rooster’s beak moved with each word. Agatha was terrified. She took a few steps back and tripped over one of the chickens.
“This isn’t happening.” Agatha said, shaking her head.
“Say it as many times as you like.” said the rooster. “I’ll still be talking.”
“No!” Agatha said. “Roosters can’t talk. I’m just imagining this.” She clenched her fists so her nails dug into her palms and squeezed her eyes shut.
“If only you were.” the rooster sighed. “Sadly, you lost your imagination along with your funness.”
“That’s not even a word.” snapped Agatha, her eyes still shut. The rooster sighed again. Only this time it was more of an annoyed sigh than a sad one.
“Your imagination is truly gone.” Agatha didn’t see this, but the rooster puffed out his feathers and walked snootily over to the grain pile. Agatha opened one eye.
“Do you really miss my stories?” she asked shyly.
“Of course!” the rooster said, aghast. “We all do. You had such great stories and were great at sharing them.”
Agatha, of course, was fairly glowing with excitement and pleasure. All those years she had told stories, all those years that people ignored her because she was young and homeschooled and couldn’t possibly be good at anything, she had had listeners. She had had fans.
As you can probably guess, Agatha was the happiest person in the world at that moment. She was so happy that she overcame her fright of the talking rooster, and instead pulled him into a hug. He squawked and tried to get away.
“Thank you! Thank you! Oh, thank you!” Agatha said. The rooster just squawked with annoyance.
That was the day Agatha started telling stories again. Only this time she wrote them down. The rooster told her the stories she had told him years ago (she had forgotten them) and she wrote those down as well. A few years later she got them published, and naturally everyone liked her. Finally, they realized the brilliance in her stories and how smart she really was. For the rest of her life, Agatha was beloved, as were her stories.
And she owed it all to the Rooster.
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