Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

Photo by Skitterphoto from Pexels

She stood at its entrance, noticing how the trees filtered out the bright sun. She felt its pull, its beckoning. She wondered if he felt the same pull. Wondered if he stood there just as she was, trying to make sense of the need to enter the woods. The breeze rustled through the leaves, swaying the branches. It swirled across the ground and spiraled the debris toward her. A welcoming gift. And in the end, she crossed its border, feeling the woods swallow her up.

“Everything goes quiet,” she thought with a smile, “in Night Ocean.”

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