fiction
The Man on the Rock-Shore
Her lids snap open as a crack rolls through the forest. It’s not the familiar boom of thunder. It’s a faraway memory. Eight…nine…ten…years back. The sound of a rifle. —Only she lived in these woods.
Eleanor Mithun
fiction
Her lids snap open as a crack rolls through the forest. It’s not the familiar boom of thunder. It’s a faraway memory. Eight…nine…ten…years back. The sound of a rifle. —Only she lived in these woods.
nonfiction
Maybe I’m soft, but so are the leaves crumbling to ash on the forest floor, the petals of wildflowers hungry for the sun, and the sky when dusk lights the firmament on fire.