Shrooms Q Hussie - |work|

When he opened his eyes again, the rain had stopped. The log was just a log. His hand was empty—the mushrooms were gone, or had never been there. The forest was quiet, save for the drip of water from the needles above.

The rain over the Pacific Northwest had the quality of a held breath—soft, endless, gray. Q, whose real name was Quincy but who hadn't answered to that in years, sat cross-legged on a rotting log. In his palm rested three small, golden-capped mushrooms, their stems bruised a deep, oceanic blue where he'd pinched them. shrooms q hussie

The first twenty minutes were just the forest getting louder . A slug traversing a fern leaf sounded like wet canvas tearing. His own heartbeat became a subwoofer, thumping a rhythm he almost recognized. Then the trees began to breathe. When he opened his eyes again, the rain had stopped