His song became not a song at all, but everything. It was the trees, the sap inside them, the grasses, the seeds in the earth. It was the petals of the nodding flower and the wet moss. It was the white roots feeling blindly and the topmost branches as they reached for light. It was the forest.
The grasses beneath his hand withered, turning brown. The rot spread outward, melting green to wet and stinking mulch. Where his hands lay the skin there glowed for a moment with a tint of green, echoing the color of the grass and when it was gone his hands were subtly different; the liver-spots reduced, the wrinkles smoothed a little.
He stood, stuck both hands in his pockets and strode off whistling, his teeth white and even.
POST A COMMENT
Wanna say something? Make yourself heard!
We reserve the right to delete spam, flames, or other nasty stuff.




