He then said… nothing. The words never came, or, if they did come, I had already departed and would never hear them. Having thought of such a possibility, I decided to return to his rude abode, deep in the dark dense forest and ask him what he had said. But when I reached the clearing where the abode once stood, there was no clearing there at all! Not even a tiny glade as evidence to its passing. I shrugged and kept my sword in its scabbard. Nobody ever came here except me. But what of the abode where the man had once lived? Had it sunk beneath the forest floor, or became so entangled with the trees, it actually looked like the trees, and had become one with the trees, and, if so, the man’s body, was it within the fattest trunk I could now see? I suddenly grasped my weapon’s haft. I heard a noise that was not natural, a noise impossible to have been made by wind or forest vermin. The noise was man-made, I was sure. A spoken word croaked by a man’s voice. As ridged and wrinkled as bark. He then said … nothing. I had imagined the voice. It had just been the noise of a voice in my head. So I spoke instead. Breaking some sort of spell. To vainly show I was there at all. A single word pluralised at its start like sword.
The Des Lewis Gestalt Real-Time Reviews 
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