The East Pass | Christopher Wiggins

Gianluca Grisenti via Pexels

Gentle breaths, rustling grass. Blades as high as your knee, tall enough to swallow a mistake. Birds nesting in an antelope skull, feathers dressing teeth and sockets. Straw figures erected by a lunatic, arranging play corpses into a bonfire to dance under a black sky.

Starless nights cold enough to clutch a family in its tracks, upright ‘til the morning thaw.

You’ll see it all from this Yew, from these gallows. Centuries of sight in exchange for the impermanent years. Bathing in the red light at dusk, dancing in these gentle breaths.

I am a screenwriter and a producer, about to publish my first short story collection.

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