The Mouth of the Mountain
by Michael Gormley
October 27th, 1912
The luminescent moon shone brightly through the clouds as I descended my usual mountain path. When finally, the moon was admitted a gasp of air from the clouds, a ring of white light formed around it, and reverberated so viciously that my eyes became strained. My head pounded as brutally as the pulsations.
My evening strolls to the wooded top was a nightly adventure, and it was not until as of late that the trip had actually become adventurous. Prior to the past few weeks my late walks were nothing more than routine. After dinner, Edgar – my seven-year-old Weimaraner, a retired hunting dog – and I would head into the mountain’s path, blanketed by conifers and limber pines. The entrance to the woods was decorated with a few weeping willows that were now fading as the…
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