Leaving the Familiar: Clouds abounded but there was no rain; the air rang sweet and dank.

I have no memory the equivalent of the Cascade Mountains, but a thing being equal to itself, I do have that memory, of backpacking, when I lived in the Pacific Northwest. I drew on the spans of green beauty to write this story about a kid who skips out on her family to find something new.

Thanks to the publication Whistling Fire for publishing "Leaving the Familiar."

C.G. went to the forest. She lied about going on a sleepover―at Eleanor’s, Ma, and found her parents’ trusting, Okay, Cee, maliciously benign. She slammed the front door, shouted an apology and left, to pedal furiously along the road winding like a concrete shoreline by the river. At its end she hid her bike under bushes.

A farmer she recognized from the Saturday market allowed her on the back of his pickup along with his cants, toms, corn and berries. She ate one ear of fresh, raw corn while she was in the back of that truck, threw the husk to the floorbed and let the silk glide in the air to the road. . . .

... to read the rest of "Leaving the Familiar" click on the title or here.