Ko's Bog in Weektown LeGlen aside Maunday's Dry Creek Run was rumored as an herbal exotica for years amongst the brethren. Jag said he caught a whiff of it once near Krispy Kreme on old Route 6. Uneven club corner teams banded brave forays of black powder, tents and camouflage that trailed into spelunking caves abandoned to bottle bats and calcified scat by families of bear for starless stories to scare dawdling campers lingering long at Susie's Barbecue.
The day dry lightning caught LeGlen afire no leaf or limb nearby moved in the eerie wires of whisping smoke curled to hug each trunk of steaming bark while the team, felled to pliant moss mounded in felt, snoozed.
"That's it," Jag cried, crawling low toward the center scent. Crushed blossoms spewed spring petals asunder on the mudded shoresand of Maunday silenced from bare soles swept by of his clan stepping on the borderlines of time.
Susie choked by his side in the smoke where she scrawled enigmas to shake trawlers shuttling through to deeps of their own contusion sliding for a ride slurried with bromide conclusions.
Haunting hulks hunted vines entwined for a creche assigned to shelve the drawers of dreams lent to this day's setting of spheres shuffling like cards across the cosmos to a quest on the markless horizon of their lives.
(~230 words 1363 characters)