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Justin Deming's avatar

Sacred Space, fiction

He walks toward his destination as if it’s calling him. Maybe it is. Perhaps it’s muscle memory.

The man drifts through the foggy meadow like a specter until the tree stand appears. He climbs—waits.

A fawn trails her mother. They turn. Stare.

He inhales.

Click.

It’s the perfect shot.

(This one’s dedicated to all the hard-working photographers out there. Cheers, John Lightle!)

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The Radical Individualist's avatar

Day's end-Free verse

Is serenity more than a moment?

Is it owned, controlled, shaped?

Can we seek it, or does it

Only find us?

The setting sun tells me

The day is over,

Bathing me in twilight.

A busy man like me

Must learn to surrender.

Sometimes, serenity must be

Forced upon me.

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