“They call him the Wise Mushroom.” Delores held tight to Everett’s hand and dragged him into the center of the park.
“Who’s they and who’s he?” Everett wasn’t so much resisting the pull – even at 10 years old, he knew better than that – as he was arguing his way every inch of the path.
“They is everybody. And he is the Wise Mushroom. He’s… you know. He’s the Wise. Mushroom. And he’s the grandfather of the mushrooms, and you can eat them and you get smarter.”
“That doesn’t sound good. That doesn’t sound right. And besides, if he’s the grandfather, wouldn’t he mind you eating his grandchildren?”
“Well, maybe it’s like…” Delores pursed her lips. “Like grandma’s billy goat, at the farm. He likes making new baby goats all the time. Right?”
“You’re saying, what, the Wise Mushroom is like, is like the billy goat? This makes less and less sense. Who’s been telling you stories, Delores? They’ve been yanking your chain.”
“I’m afraid it’s been me.” The voice came from the brush in front of them. “I’ve been telling Delores stories.”
Everett pushed the brush aside. “Who are you? Where?”
“Right here.” Down at the children’s feet, a mushroom a foot tall was smoking a long pipe. “I’ve been telling Delores stories.”
Tip ‘Shroom 😉
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