Squatch
Microfiction | He strolls the pines, woolly arms akimbo. Broad feet pressing legends in the clay.
He strolls the pines, woolly arms akimbo. Broad feet pressing legends in the clay.
The breeze scoops sweet funk into his huffing nostrils as he bends to trace star-leafed fronds with calloused fingers. All the magic of the Mother knitted into delicate veins and ruffled ridges.
Those beasts, with their smooth, angry hands, would torch every root and fiber to bar these secrets from reaching clenched minds on transmutative tendrils of smoke.
He straightens, eyeing his charges with a solemn vow.
"Not on my watch."
