Fractal Realities: Exposure Therapy

Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.


Roger had been in the cradle of the Marula tree's branches for three days. Muscles ached unevenly across the map of his back, and in knotty pockets in his thighs and arms. Below, the thick savanna grass moved in waves as if strings in a grand harp played by delicate fingers of an invisible harpist.

The awe of being in such a place washed over him, accompanied by a breeze faintly smelling of rain yet to come. It was a moment of singular beauty and his body responded the way it always did. Time slowed as he felt an expanding connection to something greater, perhaps the whole of nature. At some deep level, he understood that he was supposed to like it but he didn't. The immensity of that other thing staggered him.

Everything wobbled, threatening to fall away, and he grabbed a branch to fight the sudden feeling of vertigo.

"Steady on." he said, in reproach to himself. Getting swept away like that was dangerous.

In the distance a disappointment of zebras confused the eye, eating while the food was plentiful.


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Author's prompt text:

Collective names for animals, real and otherwise

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