Stories by Mail, Day 7 – Turning, Standing

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“Do you remember the fields?”, the spire asked in a low, rumbling timbre. “The lush, green valley that stretched far beyond our sight?   The lives that sprang up and played out under our watch?  Now we lie on a bed of crimson rust.”  It muttered as softly as a moth’s song. “Fools wish for immortality.”

The butte snorted, trusting that its friend would understand it was not being contemptuous. The snort’s nuance had been developing for millions of years. “Of course I remember. But there’s beauty in the stark too. All things wind around.”

The spire pondered this and nodded, as much as it was possible for a rock to nod.


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