Photo by Lura Helms from Madison Wood’s site
The horned skull stared blankly from within the crook of a tangled oak.
“On the night of the Great Storm, livestock was swept up and hurled all over these woods,” my father said. “Cars…..trucks……”
We passed skeletons of twisted iron, and teenagers wrestling a blackened elm for the radiator grill lodged at its heart.
Kneeling down, his eyes met mine. “You got angry, son. I understand.”
I stared back.
“I was angry too – when your mother died… ” He stumbled over the words. “But all this …“
“It won’t happen again, Father.”
He suppressed a shudder as I spun the Vortex quietly between my palms.
All constructive criticism gratefully received.