A tomb soft as damp sand is protected by a certain live oak tree two hundred fifty-plus years old.
Crevices along its bulbous trunk capture violet twilight that bounces down prismatic ridges where countless souls brace it for our life of polite desperation sometimes alleviated by a child running up to pat its bark.
The rustling satin of wedding dresses and soft crying alike follow the light down to fuel souls compressing their energy like coal in the making.
Susan DeFelice lives in Georgia and writes fiction that is shrinking more with each piece, like a disappearing story. It’s an exercise in control because her normal tendency is to ramble until her husband imitates the Charlie Brown teacher talking and she realizes she has gone too far.