By Monique Wells, Freelance Writer

When the host began to speak, Ranger Vernon took his place next to Jean Armstrong and pulled a string attached to a coffee can. He let out the wail of a moose whenever she used the acronym (MOOSE) for the Maine Organization of Storytelling Enthusiasts.

Vernon and Armstrong, the silly-hatted host, chattered on stage as if Vernon didn't know the MOOSE acronym, frustrating Vernon. He had serious ranger-moose business to attend to.

The Maine Organization of Storytelling Enthusiasts consists of middle-aged theatrefolk and circus-dabblers, as well as professional and storytelling hobbyists.

Ashley and I came to Open Mic Storytelling at the North Star Café new to MOOSE, and as MOOSE go, we were quite young.

Jean set the rules: no reading, though glancing at notes is ok. "Tellers" should limit stories to ten minutes. First up was Larry, who slowly recited an Irish drinking song titled "7 Drunken Nights," a tale about a clever adulteress.

Vernon stepped up next and, still in character, told a heavily-accented story about being a Maine tour guide. Set in a bar, the issue in the story seemed to be: How many generations must one's relatives live in Maine to be considered Mainers? Vernon resolved this question with dialog: even Native Americans probably originated in Africa, therefore none of us are truly Mainers.

Jean donned a new ethnic hat as the next teller came forth. Deb Friedman spoke of a silver fairy who wanted only to fly but lacked wings. The fairy met a caterpillar one day and they bonded over wing-lust. The caterpillar transformed to a butterfly and hooked the fairy up with an extra set of wings.

At this point, Jean began to fish for new tellers. One woman volunteered. She told another ranger story but I didn't absorb much of it; I was gathering my gusto.

"Who'd like to tell next?" People hadn't noticed before, but fellow MOOSE noticed our age as they turned to us. I volunteered. Sitting on a high stool, I told the story of my old roommate Ray, a black, fifty-year-old physical trainer who one day found a baby hummingbird, Sugar. Ray nuzzled the bird and fed it sugarwater from his finger. He swore affectionately at Sugar and made a her home in a cottonball-filled cardboard jewelry box.

I made Ray a shrinkydink necklace that read, "Give me some Sugar," beside the image of a hummingbird. When I gave it to him, he burst into tears. "Sugar passed, Monique. Sugar passed." Ray stuffed the bird in "the position she knew best" mouth agape, waiting for food. But Ray didn't have taxidermy skills, so Sugar was never preserved (though her deceased body did rest atop our bookshelf for months).

Up next, Adam told a story about meeting an ex-wife's ex-boyfriend while they both wore propeller hats while counselors at a circus summer camp. As the story ended, he told the woman's current boyfriend, "If you ever get the urge to shave your head and wear a propeller cap, we meet on Thursdays."

After the hour-long open mic, special guest Pat Spaulding stepped up. Pat delved into an hour-long tale of meeting her husband through the mail and starting a children's theatre troupe with him. In this troupe she was Ranger Pat (yes, there was a prevalent ranger theme at MOOSE that night), and her husband suited up in a full bear suit as Mr. Bear.

In vivid detail and using her hands as makeshift puppets, she told multiple tales. Of bottles of Gatorade strapped to her husband's sweat suit-wearing chest under the bear suit. Of a Bear de-pantsing. Of bear-ranger disputes and other near-disasters concerning the public library, the Audubon Society and hordes of 6-year olds.

In the last ten minutes, she unveiled a new piece: a headless bird puppet fiasco in New York City, which ended in an exasperated fight and an end to their careers in children's theater.

"We….needed new roles," she said, her final pause an ellipsis from the Greek God of library science. She was a champion storyteller.

We exchanged encouraging words before leaving. Open mic night is wholesome, cozy and gave me satisfaction akin to baking cookies to the pauses of public radio comfort. It feels like being silly with second cousins and aunts by a campfire, telling tall tales.

By Monique Wells, Freelance Writer

I told everybody: "Wear yoga pants. Bring something that you can do the splits in."

It wasn't hard to convince my friends Molly, Cat, and Christie to join me in "Human Puppetry" - put on by a group called Open HeART Space.

We giggled as we approached the building. A woman layered in cotton and dance socks saw us through the door's window. "Are you here for the workshop?" she asked. She seemed surprised to see us. Were we not Puppetry material?

We followed her into a large unfurnished classroom adorned with hanging tapestries. Four lanky men with soft eyes introduced themselves. Exclamations sounded. "New people!" We felt a little misplaced at first, like we'd come to a strangers' graduation party for appetizers.

My pals' applied their spandex (I had worn mine in, an eager beaver). The teacher, Armen, had us sit in a circle formation and we all went 'round and explained our history with movement and what we wanted to get out of the class. He asked me if I had any experience with "contact work." (I momentarily made a mental orgy joke. Was this how they began? I had always wondered). I told him that I had never heard the phrase "contact work" (others giggled, though I was being earnest), but I felt open to it.

For the first 20 minutes we lay on the floor and swooped our limbs in circles around on it. The floor supported our muscles, as if we were making a series of demented snow-angels, as if our toes were the pencil on a geometric compass.

The group circle was resumed. Each person then attempted "contact work" in the center with Armen. He danced slowly, leaning on the exemplary person, allowing the person to lean on him, making circles with the arms of the exemplary person as if they were an elliptical machine at a gym. He danced with one girl like she was a ballerina and wrestled with Molly, as upright as a horse sleeps. He explained that our first exercise in which the floor held our weight was preparing us for others to hold our weight and vise versa. I touched him sparingly, mostly in the fingertips - he was a stranger.

Suddenly there was an anticipatory vibration in the classroom. It was as if a Tibetan monk was teaching P.E. and my turn was coming to climb the rope. I was nervous. Was there a right or a wrong way to "contact?" Was it inappropriate to giggle? Each cell in my body seemed to shake like a numbered ball in a lotto machine, though as a whole I was still.

We partnered up and learned to cue another person's body to move by patting joints. For instance, if Bill was my puppet and I was the puppeteer, Bill would close his eyes and I would gently lift his bicep. The next time I touched his bicep, he would know that I intended him to raise it. I would put Bill in a hunting pose. Then Bill would be the puppeteer. Bill might walk my legs over to a chair, sit me down, and proceed to cue me into the pose of an old woman waiting for a bus. This was Human Puppetry.

Next we resumed our circle to play the puppetry game as a group. Two puppets in the middle were cued by the entire class. This part was quite a hit. It was strange to be creating a human scene, silently, with strangers.

As the class wound to a close, Armen had us close our eyes and hold hands to create noise music. We made a big, dynamic five-minute song complete with beats, whispers, whistles and growing melodies.

Throughout the class we had a series of blissful catching-ons (as we learned new tricks in people-catching or Morse code ankle-tapping). And suddenly we were a fully bonded set of strangers who moved and sang freely. After the song, a giggle-fest hit us like a nor'easter. We left feeling tranquil, wise and happy.

By Monique Wells, Freelance Writer

I told everybody: "Wear yoga pants. Bring something that you can do the splits in."

It wasn't hard to convince my friends Molly, Cat, and Christie to join me in "Human Puppetry" - put on by a group called Open HeART Space.

We giggled as we approached the building. A woman layered in cotton and dance socks saw us through the door's window. "Are you here for the workshop?" she asked. She seemed surprised to see us. Were we not Puppetry material?

We followed her into a large unfurnished classroom adorned with hanging tapestries. Four lanky men with soft eyes introduced themselves. Exclamations sounded. "New people!" We felt a little misplaced at first, like we'd come to a strangers' graduation party for appetizers.

My pals' applied their spandex (I had worn mine in, an eager beaver). The teacher, Armen, had us sit in a circle formation and we all went 'round and explained our history with movement and what we wanted to get out of the class. He asked me if I had any experience with "contact work." (I momentarily made a mental orgy joke. Was this how they began? I had always wondered). I told him that I had never heard the phrase "contact work" (others giggled, though I was being earnest), but I felt open to it.

For the first 20 minutes we lay on the floor and swooped our limbs in circles around on it. The floor supported our muscles, as if we were making a series of demented snow-angels, as if our toes were the pencil on a geometric compass.

The group circle was resumed. Each person then attempted "contact work" in the center with Armen. He danced slowly, leaning on the exemplary person, allowing the person to lean on him, making circles with the arms of the exemplary person as if they were an elliptical machine at a gym. He danced with one girl like she was a ballerina and wrestled with Molly, as upright as a horse sleeps. He explained that our first exercise in which the floor held our weight was preparing us for others to hold our weight and vise versa. I touched him sparingly, mostly in the fingertips - he was a stranger.

Suddenly there was an anticipatory vibration in the classroom. It was as if a Tibetan monk was teaching P.E. and my turn was coming to climb the rope. I was nervous. Was there a right or a wrong way to "contact?" Was it inappropriate to giggle? Each cell in my body seemed to shake like a numbered ball in a lotto machine, though as a whole I was still.

We partnered up and learned to cue another person's body to move by patting joints. For instance, if Bill was my puppet and I was the puppeteer, Bill would close his eyes and I would gently lift his bicep. The next time I touched his bicep, he would know that I intended him to raise it. I would put Bill in a hunting pose. Then Bill would be the puppeteer. Bill might walk my legs over to a chair, sit me down, and proceed to cue me into the pose of an old woman waiting for a bus. This was Human Puppetry.

Next we resumed our circle to play the puppetry game as a group. Two puppets in the middle were cued by the entire class. This part was quite a hit. It was strange to be creating a human scene, silently, with strangers.

As the class wound to a close, Armen had us close our eyes and hold hands to create noise music. We made a big, dynamic five-minute song complete with beats, whispers, whistles and growing melodies.

Throughout the class we had a series of blissful catching-ons (as we learned new tricks in people-catching or Morse code ankle-tapping). And suddenly we were a fully bonded set of strangers who moved and sang freely. After the song, a giggle-fest hit us like a nor'easter. We left feeling tranquil, wise and happy.