The tree roots we’d used as pillows seemed to sweat with us as the dew fell over the early world in a misty sheet.
We could do this forever. This must be what eternity is like.
It was the best night of my whole damn life.
“You’re not real,” I whisper. “He’s dead.”
“So am I,” the Green Man says. “So are you. Just not yet.”
I raise the axe, clenching hard to stop my hands from trembling.
“Where do you want it?”
He smiles again and kneels in front of me, bowing his head, and pulling his long green hair to either side of his neck, revealing old runes painted across the nape in gold.
So what the heck is a spatchcock, anyway?
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Maybe you had a place that always seemed full to the brim with people until early in the morning when only the smell of frying bacon seemed to reside there.
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Next to pine trees a hundred years old, my anxieties felt insignificant and evanescent. In the woods, there is a buzz, like a low humming, but you can only hear it if you’re mentally present and quiet. Like the trees are singing, like divine orators keeping watch over us lesser creatures.
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Sometimes when we lose someone we lose a friend, a connection, and a handful of memories. Other times, though, we lose someone and the ground shifts where we stand.
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Can we talk about creative block?
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