The sun’s dying. The corn doesn’t know. It grows tall and green. The human heart knows. It stirs and it stirs.
There’s a dwindling in August. Sadness. And a loner on the roads.
He doesn’t know why he left. His life wasn’t bad. Everyone said he was good at his job, even his boss.
But when he was young he knew something. He had a fate, a reason to exist. It was as real as the pollen that made him sneeze. He never quite found it, his fate, and every autumn it slipped further away.
He stopped one day for food. A gas station, like any other. But the man there was friendly. He was bored. And he liked the look of the young guy with his bike, and he asked him questions.
“Where you headed?” he asked.
It was a hard question.
“Well, what do you do?”
The young man chewed his food. Vagabond. Can you say vagabond? Is that a career?
He looked off in the distance.
“I cast spells,” he said.
And the old man had some work for him.
I’m planning a novella, Lúnasa Days.
It’s a semi-fictional account of a bike ride in August, and a young man who casts spells for the people he meets.