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   Chapter 27 Liberated From The Wood

The Silverskin By Rian Torr Characters: 5309

Updated: 2018-03-07 15:18

He sat down and lit a new smoke with his dying one. His memories were flowing fast now, back into the chasm.

Out of the past―he recalled catching a blue darner in the shade by Black Heron Lake―and he felt a pang of nostalgia.

He wiped a tear away from the corner of his eye into a fist―wishing he could be that fresh bright kid again.

He never liked letting anything go so much—because the more he did—the more desensitized he became to life.

But that was another age―and he knew times were better now―without the Silverskin poisoning the mix so much.

He was better off deeply buried away in Old York, liberated from the wood's influence—free to be more human.

But there was always some lingering amour for the trees in his bones—some trace of a fanged lineage in his visage under the full moon. Even in the heart of the city, at the height of daylight—he could still feel the pull of French's Forest. He was forever learning how to live without those old trees—and he was forever getting used to existing without those familiar old interdimensional vibes.

He ran his fingers over the old carvings in the wood desk. He used to sit there and smoke long into the wee hours—writing almost as fast as he was able to think—losing all distinction between the pen and the paper. He had been insular.

Sometimes he liked journalling up on the roof, at the peak beside the weathervane—or down in the cellar with the rat bones and the old wine—or out on the porch looking on into the settling dusk for creative inspiration. Quiet was home.

But most of all, he liked it ri

r string in the membrane of a vast multi-verse—a dynamic array.

The sky was but a reflection of mind.

The ground ran right out from his feet. The sea flowed out from his veins.

When he heard the birds chirping in the trees, he could almost interpret their natural language. They nearly spoke now.

Seeing a fawn in flight, he would feel as if he were the one running fast and free with the breeze. He could feel the air.

When he tracked the foxes down into their dens, he would see them with his mind before his eyes. He felt them.

So he began to explore the Forest for what seemed like the first time. Everything was fresh again—all renewed.

Then one rainy night of infamy—while following an inner calling―he was tracking past a babbling brook, when he ran upon a black-haired girl. She just then looked at him with a devilish grin and began pulling back her flesh—slowly shedding her human flesh for him—revealing a shiny silver skin underneath—that shone with a scintillating brilliance—dazzling his heart's mind. Faye was real.

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