scheherazade IIIsometimesscheherazade III2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
deergirldeergirl3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
long ago there lived a boy in the hazy mountains to the east who often did the fishing and logging for his father. in the wintertime, when the fish were hidden frozen under the layercake pondwater and the trees nearest the cabin were too tired and frail and quivery to be cut down for firewood, the boy would have to venture out quite far to find ponds that were still crackly and wood that would still burn.
the father, seeing his son struggle to mash up the first of the frostbitten roots in the old castiron dragonbelly pot, raised his head a bit from the worn imprinted couch where he lay most day and night. he saw how the little fish laying like forgotten words had barely enough bone to make a stock, let alone any flesh on them, as skinny as his own son.
he beckoned, steering the son near him with his whittled walking-stick. not a useful thing, that, but the son had made it and so out of rules for such things the gruff father kept it.
and what he said was true. the son was almost a man;