I’ve no idea where this is coming from, but Poe has left me and somehow a Chekov wannabe had moved into his room:
As he traveled he realized that birdsong followed, had been following him for a while. He stopped and looked up at the trees, the branches reaching to each other across windows of bluest sky. Each time the bird would call, his head would jerk in that direction and he’d spin around in place, his eyes watching for what his ears would tell him. He did this many times and faster each until he felt himself get dizzy and the branches reaching down instead of holding hands above him.
This is a continuation of this strange short story I started yesterday right here at Spinning though I’ll likely remove that post shortly since I see this going somewhere I like–I think.
But where from comes the voices? (Did I just write "where from comes?")