Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth
In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.
Three Fish
Have you been having weird dreams since this all began, dreams that seem somehow more mythic, more weighted, more charged with meaning, than usual? Me too.
Here's today's.
Every year my grandfather would drive up north to a particular lake in Canada.
When he got there, he would lay down on the shore of the lake, and his soul would leave his body through his mouth. For three days and nights it would fly, while his body lay unmoving on the lakeshore.
Where it flew off to he would never say, but this much I can say: when he awoke, there would always be three fish lined up on the ground beside him.
“Well worth the price,” was all he would ever say of it.
From: Dreams of the Covid Era: An Anthology (2020)
Michelle Parsons, Three Fish
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