Afternoon. The trough. Restlessness slithers into my veins, the serpent of endless possibility. It circulates, scraping my insides, leaking its venom but sinking its fangs into nothing. An ache in my teeth that cannot be gnashed away. The broken-glass toxins refract harsh light, immobilizing photographers in a shimmering haze that
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He sits on the log, a stump really, one hand gripping the scabbard, and the other sliding the blade in and out, no doubt imaging that each thrust is into some enemy, maybe one that his father defeated, or more likely, one bigger and tougher, one that only he could
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The log exploded. Black vespers curled out, slinking and snaking towards Dad. He waved the splitting maul through the dark tendrils and they burst into fine particles. The glass orb at the butt of the maul flashed bright blue, like the after image of a lightning strike. Any time I