There was always a shift in the air before the white stag appeared. A silver-edged dissonance that ran up her spine and made her temples throb. This time was no different. As she stood, balancing the buckets she’d filled in the Lake, languid snowflakes began to fall, covering the graying grasses around her. It’s only once each year, she reassured herself. She tilted her head and caught her reflection in the water: two black eyes gazed back at her, framed by majestic, shimmering antlers. Where she’d stood, an emerald hue emerged within the grass, and it followed translucent footprints to the village.
© Nadia Brown
Glad to be participating in Sonya’s 3 Line Tales!
Photo by Rebecca Johnson
Becoming Roots 