And just when you thought there couldn’t possibly be another unique tale… You’re in for a treat of poetic prose. Enjoy
Pixabay image by Marianne Sopala
Written for sport in response to D. Wallace Peach-Myths of the Mirror, February’s Speculative Fiction Prompt
And the snow that fell turned to mice as it collected on the shingled pitch and forced the pine to know its limits. It was cold and he peered through frosted glass for a weakness, but he was too old now. Too old to get them back. Snow scurried wild across the roof. The evergreen cried out, a violin strained in despair, played under the shrill of the icy wind: the weight of the mice accumulating against the grain. He ached for the savanna and the warmth of the day and the smell of lovegrass sweet beneath the rains.
The old man lay in bed not knowing the time or day. Under layered sheet and warmth of worn woollen covers, he drifted…
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