Park bench brotherhood, tree branch laser swords, summers spent running on the wood chip mulch. Best friends forever — such a long time when you’re nine.
Twenty years later, my son and his best friend love this park, and I make pilgrimage to the park bench, seeking an echo of you.
J.A. August writes to explore the world and the people who shape it.
When the smoke and the flames faded, we emerged from the rubble. Lonely survivors with seed pouches at our sides, we planted gardens in the ashes. Our work would revive a smoldering civilization; we thought ourselves seed-scattering saviors. We realized too late that we had sown a bed of weeds.
J.A. August writes to explore the world and the people who shape it.