Day and night fell into fleeting balance. Darkness was growing in power, and the winds whispered of cold days ahead. She felt the deep instinct, the unshakeable urge, to gather falling leaves, forgotten cobwebs, brittle grasses. These she wove and shaped into a careful covering, a soft, strong shelter for the changes to come. There was little nectar left for her gentle, summer appetite. But she did not fear hunger. She would swathe herself in autumn’s layers, await the change, emerge ready to feed on the warm, beating nectar of winter.
fear in the making
Miriam H. Harrison (she/her) writes among the boreal forests and abandoned mines of Northern Ontario, Canada. Much like herself, her writings vary between the eerie, the dreary, and the cheery. When not transcribing strange imaginings into stories and poems, she is sure to be kept busy with her family out in the fresh northern air or cuddled under the blankies with a book. She is a member of the Horror Writers Association, SF Canada, and the Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association, and updates about her publications can be found on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/miriam.h.harrison) or her website (https://miriamhharrison.wordpress.com/).