Mother Wilmot removes the narrow brass frames of the reader lenses balanced on her nose and puts aside the correspondence on her desk, four sheets high and thick with ink. She leans into one elbow on the arm of her chair and watches Tate.
“Well enough to stand, then.”
“I’ll be leaving soon,” Tate declares. She doesn’t look up.
Mother Wilmot says nothing for a long stretch. The log in the hearth eating itself from the inside pops and collapses inward to a flickering red eye.
//
After a fever, clarity; and with clarity, the strange pain of misbelonging.
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FELLA is a genre-crossing Western about the nature of goodness in America and the miracle of storytelling. Join me here every other Monday for a new chapter of Tate’s twisting fate unfolding.
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