Coming Of Age

Mother slept lightly, but, if I was quiet and careful, I could make it out of the cabin without her knowing. I had been practicing since the snow thawed. And now, on last of the summer’s full moons, I was out in the forest.

The dead-man’s-heads had bloomed in the dark.

I cut through the thick stalk, sawing until it came away. The blade slipped, and pierced my finger, drawing blood that dripped down on the flower’s petals. Bringing it to life, a glow in the darkness.

Somewhere out in the woods, the wolves began to howl, drawing me in.

Prompt courtesy of Jane Dougherty‘s Sunday Strange Microfiction Challenge.

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