They said the new woodsman had broken the bank, crashed his Jag and killed his wife. And I said, they said too much.
I traded my ex-husband’s discarded jacket and a bottle of whisky for a sack of charcoal. Later he mended my fences.
They said he slept on a bed of moss, never washed and had a tail tucked down his patched old trousers. When I saw him rise naked from the river, shaking ribbons of sunlight from his shaggy mane, I knew at least two of those were untrue.
This is my entry to the Friday Fictioneers 100-word challenge. Thought I was writing a deeply poignant tale (honest) and then I took a wrong turn in those woods, down a grove of budding saplings and oops… Can’t explain it really. For a fascinating trip around the conscious and subconscious minds of writers from around the world click on this link.
Thanks to Rochelle (at Addicted to Purple) for hosting with such aplomb and to Rachel Bjerke for the atmospheric photo.