A little later, their daughter Cushy-coo led the man-kin cub into the Big Room, where the Kingtree’s mighty roots thrust down, here and there and yonder, and made a high, tight roof overhead.
Other, hollow, roots here let down the fading sunset light and air and noise, from holes in the Kingtree’s trunk.
Dapple-gray went to the man-kin and hesitantly sniffed. Her scent was of a female creature, too young to breed, in good health but tired and not well-fed. He sat up and looked at her, his head almost touching the roof.
My name is Rob and I'm a fiction writing veteran. It prompted the development of our essayists’ gathering, which despite everything meets, and which has accomplished such a great deal to make my composing fair.
