On leaving the forest, fragrant with decaying leaves, she smells Mountain Fresh fabric softener from a bungalow’s dryer outlet.
The Unspeakable, venom dripping, ripped into their offering, gagged, and asked the Druids in long hemp cloaks and unwashed hair — “Tofu!?!”
Her days rolled easily with Dan, but her nights rocked with Bob. Last fall, her search ended when she found the perfect equinox with Roger.
Every step was careful. Every crunch, a cringe. My son grimaced each time, as if he felt the pain he inflicted on these dry, autumn leaves.
Fall stormed on there, he thought, knowing he wouldn’t see it: Swirling leaves, fireside ales, turtlenecks. Cider in Santa Fe, not the same.