Rinsing certain tastes out of my mouth.
Tomorrow is the solstice, of course. The sun will reach the zenith of its analemma; the Oak King, distracted, will show the Holly King (who says, I only want to be sure you’re safe; I only want to know how very hard it is to harm you) the one way he can be killed, and the Holly King will turn treacher and strike. And then the days will grow shorter—so slowly that at first we will not notice, tumbling headlong through the high white heat of summer—until the first crisp breeze nips our nose, and we’re well on our way toward the cold dead end of the year.
If anything interesting happens to you in all of that, and you manage to wrap it up in 250 words of less-than-fictional prose by 28 June, slip it into a Word document and email it to Dale Keiger for consideration in the Microstories Summer Solstice 2003 project, would you? I think he’d like that.
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