Behind the door is a thicket; behind the thicket, a forest, thick fir as far as eye can see. Gem-bright orbs are strung on every tree, dancing with spores and dust motes. Here is distraction, yellow and sore; here cruelty, damson brooding; here hunger for fame, gaudy cerulean. Here presumption, here angst, addiction, vapidity. Carelessness, pessimism, fastidiousness.

We are at the tree line. In the valley, the fruit has grown heavier, more dull. Gluttony is orange, greed maroon; envy not green but blood-red as a dying sun. And, knotted under miles of roots, three born before human consciousness, biding time.

2 thoughts on “Twenty

    • Hah! Good question. I was imagining it being down a steep mountainside but I guess that didn’t come across so well in the story. Thick fir on the flat, yes, would be pretty impenetrable.

      A very good quibble 🙂

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