STAVE III

In the early light of a musty Brigadoon morning, Zenobia lifted her woolen hood, winced down to one knee, and leaned forward to brace herself on the natural cradle formed by the tiny and towering ancient rocks which stood guard beyond the lush pathways.

There was something perfunctory as she began her monotone whisper, completely flat, like the way you would answer a telephone half asleep; “Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday baby Stella, Happy Birthday to you.”

Written by Edward Roads