As the snow melts, the cannibals become visible.
They sit, deceptively fragile, on the surfaces of their forefathers, slowly molding themselves to the greater bodies of times long past.
I can spend hours staring at rotting stumps.
I love watching those tiny saplings, seeded from the remaining trees, struggle to gain purchase on their dead kin.
This is no horror story.
This is a sharing, a passage of life and strength from the old to the new.
My words transit on the page, drawing from stories and memories, things passed and precious.
Neither I nor the saplings can become exactly as the great ones who stood before us.
But we can plant our roots, firmly, clearly in the strength of the past.
Our arms reaching upwards to a new and unknown space.
In between staring at stumps and saplings, I have also written a fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor. It is available here.