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22 May 2015
In the glade where the star had fallen, the gloom of the gnarled old woods was deeper than night, save around the blackberry bush that had broken his fall: the grass and the battered leaves were now luminous, moon-touched. There was a long pause, broken by the sounds of twittering insects and the forest folk, then, there was a loudly groaned, “Fuck!”
The star rubbed a hand over his eyes, then flinched and held his hand up, spreading unfamiliar fingers up against the night sky. He turned his hand this way and that, curling and uncurling fingers, then he let out a softer, yet just as vehement “fuck!” and sat up, wincing.